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LIBRARY 


UNivecsirr  or 
CAUFORNIA 


H.  SCOFIELD, 

Private  Library. 

JJo 


POEMS 


OP 


THE       ORIENT 


BY 


BAYAKD    TAYLOR. 


FOURTH      EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS 


M  DCCC  LV. 


rMI$  hIM.i 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1864,  by 

Bayard  Taylor, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED  AT  THE 
BOSTON  STEREOTYPE  FOUNDRY. 


?5"3 

OtL. 


! 


CONTENTS. 


PROEM    DEDICATORY. 

nun 

An  Epistle  prom  Mount  Tmoltjs, 7 

POEMS   OF  THE   ORIENT. 

A  P.2BAN  TO  THE  DAWN,        ....                    •          .  15 

The  Poet  in  the  East, 19 

The  Temptation  of  Hassan  ben  Khaled,    ...  22 

The  Arab  Warrior, 39 

Arab  Prayer, 41 

El  Khalil, 44 

Ode  to  Indolence, 46 

Song, 49 

Amran's  Wooing, -50 

A  Pledge  to  Hafiz, g9 

The  Garden  of  Irem, 71 

The  Birth  of  the  Horse, 75 

The  Wisdom  of  Ali, 77 

(3) 


465 


An  Oriental  Idyl, .80 

The  Angel  op  Patience, 83 

Bedouin  Song, 86 

Desert  Hymn  to  the  Sun, 88 

Nilotic  Drinking-Song, 92 

Camadeva, 95 

Nubia, 97 

KlLIMANDJARO, *                             .          .  98 

Mimosa  Blooms, .  103 

The  Birth  of  the  Prophet, 105 

To  the  Nile, Ill 

Hassan  to  his  Mare, 114 

Charmian, 117 

The  Shexh, 121 

Smyrna, 123 

To  a  Persian  Boy, 124 

The  Goblet,     . 125 

The  Arab  to  the  Palm 130 

aurum  potabile, 133 

On  the  Sea, 137 

Tyre, 139 

An  Answer, 143 

Requiem  in  the  South, .144 

Gulistan,       4 147 

Jerusalem, 150 

The  Voyage  op  a  Dream,         .       .       .       .       .       .  154 

L'Envoi, 160 


n. 

Hymn  to  Air, 165 

Song, 172 

The  Mystery, 174 

A  Picture, .177 

In  the  Meadows, 180 

Sonnet, 182 

The  Winter  Solstice, 183 

In  Articulo  Mortis,         .       .       .       .       .       .       .  186 

S/turday  Night  at  Sea, 193 

Song, 195 

The  Mid-Watoh, 197 

The  Phantom,      .                               199 

Lament  and  Consolation, 202 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2006  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/poemsorientOOtayJrich 


PROEM   DEDICATORY. 


AN  EPISTLE   FROM  MOUNT  TMOLUS. 


TO    RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD. 


O  Friend,  were  you  but  couched  on  Tmolus'  side, 
In  the  warm  myrtles,  in  the  golden  air 
Of  the  declining  day,  which  half  lays  bare, 

Half  drapes,  the  silent  mountains  and  the  wide 

Embosomed  vale,  that  wanders  to  the  sea  ; 
And  the  far  sea,  with  doubtful  specks  of  sail, 

And  farthest  isles,  that  slumber  tranquilly 
Beneath  the  Ionian  autumn's  violet  veil ;  — 

(7) 


» 


8 


Were  you  but  with  me,  little  were  the  need 
Of  this  imperfect  artifice  of  rhyme, 
Where  the  strong  Fancy  peals  a  broken  chime 

And  the  ripe  brain  but  sheds  abortive  seed. 

But  I  am  solitary,  and  the  curse, 

Or  blessing,  which  has  clung  to  me  from  birth  — 

The  torment  and  the  ecstasy  of  verse  — 
Comes  up  to  me  from  the  illustrious  earth 

Of  ancient  Tmolus  ;  and  the  very  stones, 

Reverberant,  din  the  mellow  air  with  tones 

Which  the  sweet  air  remembers  ;  and  they  blend 
With  fainter  echoes,  which  the  mountains  fling 

From  far  oracular  caverns  :  so,  my  Friend, 
I  cannot  choose  but  sing  ! 


II. 


Unto  mine  eye,  less  plain  the  shepherds  be, 

Tending  their  browsing  goats  amid  the  broom, 
Or  the  slow  camels,  travelling  towards  the  sea, 

Laden  with  bales  from  Baghdad's  gaudy  loom, 
Or  yon  nomadic  Turcomans,  that  go 

Down  from  their  summer  pastures  —  than  the  twain 
Immortals,  who  on  Tmolus'  thymy  top 

Sang,  emulous,  the  rival  strain  ! 
Down  the  charmed  air  did  light  Apollo  drop  ; 


9 


Great  Pan  ascended  from  the  vales  below. 
I  see  them  sitting  in  the  silent  glow  ; 
I  hear  the  alternating  measures  flow 
From  pipe  and  golden  lyre  ;  —  the  melody- 
Heard  by  the  Gods  between  their  nectar  bowls, 
Or  when,  from  out  the  chambers  of  the  sea, 

Comes  the  triumphant  Morning,  and  unrolls 
A  pathway  for  the  sun  ;  then,  following  swift, 

The  daedal  harmonies  of  awful  caves 
Cleft  in  the  hills,  and  forests  that  uplift 

Their  sea-like  boom,  in  answer  to  the  waves, 
With  many  a  lighter  strain,  that  dances  o'er 
The  wedded  reeds,  till  Echo  strives  in  vain 
To  follow : 
Hark !  once  more, 
How  floats  the  God's  exultant  strain 
In  answer  to  Apollo ! 

"  The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes, 
The  lees  on  the  hells  of  thyme, 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  hushes, 
TJie  cicdle  above  in  the  lime, 
And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass 
Are  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus  was, 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings." 


10 


III. 


I  cannot  separate  the  minstrels'  worth  ; 
Each  is  alike  transcendent  and  divine. 

What  were  the  Day,  unless  it  lighted  Earth  ? 

And  what  were  Earth,  should  Day  forget  to  shine  ? 

But  were  you  here,  my  Friend,  we  twain  would  build 
Two  altars,  on  the  mountain's  sunward  side : 
There  Pan  should  o'er  my  sacrifice  preside, 

And  there  Apollo  your  oblation  gild. 

He  is  your  God,  but  mine  is  shaggy  Pan ; 
Yet,  as  their  music  no  discordance  made, 
So  shall  our  offerings  side  by  side  be  laid, 

And  the  same  wind  the  rival  incense  fan. 


IV. 


You  strain  your  ear  to  catch  the  harmonies 
That  in  some  finer  region  have  their  birth ; 

I  turn,  despairing,  from  the  quest  of  these, 
And  seek  to  learn  the  native  tongue  of  Earth. 

In  "  Fancy's  tropic  clime  "  your  castle  stands, 
A  shining  miracle  of  rarest  art ; 

I  pitch  my  tent  upon  the  naked  sands, 


11 


And  the  tall  palm,  that  plumes  the  orient  lands, 
Can  with  its  beauty  satisfy  my  heart. 

You,  in  your  starry  trances,  breathe  the  air 
Of  lost  Elysium,  pluck  the  snowy  bells 
Of  lotus  and  Olympian  asphodels, 

And  bid  us  their  diviner  odors  share. 

I  at  the  threshold  of  that  world  have  lain, 
Gazed  on  its  glory,  heard  the  grand  acclaim 
Wherewith  its  trumpets  hail  the  sons  of  Fame, 

And  striven  its  speech  to  master  —  but  in  vain. 

And  now  I  turn,  to  find  a  late  content 

In  Nature,  making  mine  her  myriad  shows : 
Better  contented  with  one  living  rose 

Than  all  the  Gods'  ambrosia ;  sternly  bent 

On  wresting  from  her  hand  the  cup,  whence  flow 
The  flavors  of  her  ruddiest  life  —  the  change 
Of  climes  and  races  —  the  unshackled  range 

Of  all  experience  ;  —  that  my  songs  may  show 

The  warm  red  blood  that  beats  in  hearts  of  men, 

And  those  who  read  them  in  the  festering  den 
Of  cities,  may  behold  the  open  sky, 

And  hear  the  rhythm  of  the  winds  that  blow, 
Instinct  with  Freedom.     Blame  me  not,  that  J 

Find  in  the  forms  of  Earth  a  deeper  joy 

Than  in  the  dreams  which  lured  me  as  a  boy, 


12 


And  leave  the  Heavens,  where  you  are  wandering  still 
With  bright  Apollo,  to  converse  with  Pan ; 
For,  though  full  soon  our  courses  separate  ran, 

We,  like  the  Gods,  can  meet  on  Tmolus'  hill. 


There  is  no  jealous  rivalry  in  Song  : 

I  see  your  altar  on  the  hill-top  shine, 

And  mine  is  built  in  shadows  of  the  Pine, 
Yet  the  same  worships  unto  each  belong. 
Different  the  Gods,  yet  one  the  sacred  awe 

Their  presence  brings  us,  one  the  reverent  heart 
Wherewith  we  honor  the  immortal  law 

Of  that  high  inspiration,  which  is  Art. 
Take,  therefore,  Friend !  these  Voices  of  the  Earth  -  - 

The  rhythmic  records  of  my  life's  career, 
Humble,  perhaps,  yet  wanting  not  the  worth 

Of  Truth,  and  to  the  heart  of  Nature  near. 
Take  them,  and  your  acceptance,  in  the  dearth 

Of  the  world's  tardy  praise,  shall  make  them  dear. 


POEMS  OF  THE  ORIENT. 


Da  der  West  ward  durchgekostet, 
Hat  er  nun  den  Ost  entmostet. 

RUCKERT. 


(13) 


15 


A  P^AN  TO  THE  DAWN. 


The  dusky  sky  fades  into  blue, 

And  bluer  surges  bind  us  ; 
The  stars  are  glimmering  faint  and  few, 

The  night  is  left  behind  us ! 
Turn  not  where  sinks  the  sullen  dark 

Before  the  signs  of  warning, 
But  crowd  the  canvas  on  our  bark 

And  sail  to  meet  the  morning. 
Rejoice  !  rejoice  !  the  hues  that  fill 

The  orient,  flush  and  lighten  ; 
And  over  the  blue  Ionian  hill 

The  Dawn  begins  to  brighten  ! 


16 


LI. 


We  leave  the  Night,  that  weighed  so  long 

Upon  the  soul's  endeavor, 
For  Morning,  on  these  hills  of  Song, 

Has  made  her  home  forever. 
Hark  to  the  sound  of  trump  and  lyre, 

In  the  olive  groves  before  us, 
And  the  rhythmic  beat,  the  pulse  of  fire, 

Throb  in  the  full-voiced  chorus! 
More  than  Memnonian  grandeur  speaks 

In  the  triumph  of  the  psean, 
And  all  the  glory  of  the  Greeks 

Breathes  o'er  the  old  iEgean. 


in. 


Here  shall  the  ancient  Dawn  return, 

That  lit  the  earliest  poet, 
Whose  very  ashes  in  his  urn 

Would  radiate  glory  through  it  — 
The  dawn  of  Life,  when  Life  was  Song, 

And  Song  the  life  of  Nature, 


17 


And  the  Singer  stood  amid  the  throng 

A  God  in  every  feature  ! 
When  Love  was  free,  and  free  as  air 

The  utterance  of  Passion, 
And  the  heart  in  every  fold  lay  bare, 

Nor  shamed  its  true  expression. 


IV. 


Then  perfect  limb  and  perfect  face 

Surpassed  our  best  ideal ; 
Unconscious  Nature's  law  was  grace  — - 

The  Beautiful  was  real. 
For  men  acknowledged  true  desires, 

And  light  as  garlands  wore  them  ; 
They  were  begot  by  vigorous  sires, 

And  noble  mothers  bore  them. 
O,  when  the  shapes  of  Art  they  planned 

Were  living  forms  of  passion, 
Impulse  and  Deed  went  hand  in  hand, 

And  Life  was  more  than  Fashion ! 


The  seeds  of  Song  they  scattered  first 
Flower  in  all  later  pages  ; 
2 


18 


Their  forms  have  woke  the  Artist's  thirst 

Through  the  succeeding  ages : 
But  I  will  seek  the  fountain-head 

Whence  flowed  their  inspiration, 
And  lead  the  unshackled  life  they  led, 

Accordant  with  Creation. 
The  World's  false  life,  that  follows  still, 

Has  ceased  its  chain  to  tighten, 
And  over  the  blue  Ionian  hill 

I  see  the  sunrise  brighten ! 


19 


THE   POET  IN   THE   EAST. 

The  Poet  came  to  the  Land  of  the  East, 

When  Spring  was  in  the  air  : 
The  Earth  was  dressed  for  a  wedding  feast, 

So  young  she  seemed,  and  fair  ; 
And  the  Poet  knew  the  Land  of  the  East  — 

His  soul  was  native  there. 

All  things  to  him  were  the  visible  forms 
Of  early  and  precious  dreams  — 

Familiar  visions  that  mocked  his  quest 
Beside  the  Western  streams, 

Or  gleamed  in  the  gold  of  the  clouds,  unrolled 
In  the  sunset's  dying  beams. 

He  looked  above  in  the  cloudless  calm, 
And  the  Sun  sat  on  his  throne  ; 


20 


The  breath  of  gardens,  deep  in  balm. 

Was  all  about  him  blown, 
And  a  brother  to  him  was  the  princely  Palm, 

For  he  cannot  live  alone. 

His  feet  went  forth  on  the  myrtled  hills, 
And  the  flowers  their  welcome  shed ; 

The  meads  of  milk-white  asphodel 
They  knew  the  Poet's  tread, 

And  far  and  wide,  in  a  scarlet  tide, 
The  poppy's  bonfire  spread. 

And,  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sun, 

The  Rose  sat  in  her  bower, 
With  a  passionate  thrill  in  her  crimson  heart  - 

She  had  waited  for  the  hour  ! 
And,  like  a  bride's,  the  Poet  kissed 

The  lips  of  the  glorious  flower. 

Then  the  Nightingale,  who  sat  above 
In  the  boughs  of  the  citron  tree, 

Sang  :  We  are  no  rivals,  brother  mine, 
Except  in  minstrelsy ; 

For  the  rose  you  kissed  with  the  kiss  of  love 
Is  faithful  still  to  me. 


21 


And  further  sang  the  Nightingale  : 

Your  bower  not  distant  lies. 
I  heard  the  sound  of  a  Persian  lute 

From  the  jasmined  window  rise, 
And  like  two  stars,  through  the  lattice-bars, 

I  saw  the  Sultana's  eyes. 

The  Poet  said  :  I  will  here  abide, 

In  the  Sun's  unclouded  door ; 
Here  are  the  wells  of  all  delight 

On  the  lost  Arcadian  shore  : 
Here  is  the  light  on  sea  and  land, 

And  the  dream  deceives  no  more. 


22 


THE  TEMPTATION  OF  HASSAN  BEN 
KHALED. 


Hassan  Ben  Khaled,  singing  in  the  streets 

Of  Cairo,  sang  these  verses  at  my.  door  : 

"  Blessed  is  he,  who  God  and  Prophet  greets 

Each  morn  with  prayer  ;  but  he  is  blest  much  more 

Whose  conduct  is  his  prayer's  interpreter. 

Sweeter  than  musk,  and  pleasanter  than  myrrh, 

Richer  than  rubies,  shall  his  portion  be, 

When  God  bids  Azrael :  l  bring  him  unto  me  ! ' 

But  woe  to  him  whose  life  casts  dirt  upon 

The  Prophet's  word !     When  all  his  days  are  done, 

Him  shall  the  Evil  Angel  trample  down 

Out  of  the  sight  of  God."     Thus,  with  a  frown 

Of  the  severest  virtue,  Hassan  sang 

Unto  the  people,  till  the  markets  rang. 


23 


But  two  days  after  this,  he  came  again 

And  sang,  and  I  remarked  an  altered  strain. 

Before  my  shop  he  stood,  with  forehead  bent 

Like  one  whose  sin  hath  made  him  penitent  — 

In  whom  the  pride,  that  like  a  stately  reed 

Lifted  his  head,  is  broken.     "  Blest,  indeed," 

(These  were  his  words,)  "  is  he  who  never  fell, 

But  blest  much  more,  who  from  the  verge  of  Hell 

Climbs  up  to  Paradise  :  for  Sin  is  sweet ; 

Strong  is  Temptation ;  willing  are  the  feet 

That  follow  Pleasure,  manifold  her  snares, 

And  pitfalls  lurk  beneath  our  very  prayers  : 

Yet  God,  the  Clement,  the  Compassionate, 

In  pity  of  our  weakness  keeps  the  gate 

Of  Pardon  open,  scorning  not  to  wait 

Till  the  last  moment,  when  His  mercy  flings 

A  splendor  from  the  shade  of  AzraePs  wings." 

"  Wherefore,  O  Poet !  "  I  to  Hassan  said, 

"  This  altered  measure  ?    Wherefore  hang  your  head. 

O  Hassan !  whom  the  pride  of  virtue  gives 

The  right  to  face  the  holiest  man  that  lives  ? 

Enter,  I  pray  thee  :  this  poor  house  will  be 

Honored  henceforth,  if  it  may  shelter  thee." 


24 


Hassan  Ben  Khaled  lifted  up  his  eyes 

To  mine,  a  moment :  then,  in  cheerful  guise, 

He  passed  my  threshold  with  unslippered  feet. 


in. 


I  led  him  from  the  noises  of  the  street 

To  the  cool  inner  chambers,  where  my  slave 

Poured  out  the  pitcher's  rosy-scented  wave 

Over  his  hands,  and  laid  upon  his  knee 

The  napkin,  silver-fringed  :  and  when  the  pipe 

Exhaled  a  grateful  odor  from  the  ripe 

Latakian  leaves,  said  Hassan  unto  me  : 

"  Listen,  O  Man  !  no  man  can  truly  say 

That  he  hath  wisdom.     What  I  sang  to-day 

Was  not  less  truth  than  what  I  sang  before, 

But  to  Truth's  house  there  is  a  single  door, 

Which  is  Experience.     He  teaches  best, 

Who  feels  the  hearts  of  all  men  in  his  breast 

And  knows  their  strength  or  weakness  through  his  own, 

The  holy  pride,  that  never  was  o'erthrown, 

Was  never  tempted,  and  its  words  of  blame 

Reach  but  the  dull  ears  of  the  multitude  : 

The  admonitions,  fruitful  unto  good, 

Come  from  the  voice  of  him  who  conquers  shame." 


25 


IV. 


"  Give  me,  O  Poet !  (if  thy  friend  may  be 
Worthy  such  confidence,"  )  I  said  ;  "  the  key 
Unto  thy  words,  that  I  may  share  with  thee 
Thine  added  wisdom.'"     Hassan's  kindly  eye 
Before  his  lips  unclosed,  spake  willingly, 
And  he  began  :  "  But  two  days  since,  I  went 
Singing  what  thou  didst  hear,  with  soul  intent 
On  my  own  virtue,  all  the  markets  through ; 
And  when  about  the  time  of  prayer,  I  drew 
Near  to  the  Gate  of  Victory,  behold ! 
There  came  a  man,  whose  turban  fringed  with  gold 
And  golden  cimeter,  bespake  his  wealth  : 
1  May  God  prolong  thy  days,  O  Hassan  !    Health 
And  Fortune  be  thy  wisdom's  aids! '  he  cried  ; 
1  Come  to  my  garden  by  the  river's  side, 
Where  other  poets  wait  thee.     Be  my  guest, 
For  even  the  Prophets  had  their  times  of  rest, 
And  "Rest,  that  strengthens  unto  virtuous  deeds, 
Is  one  with  Prayer.'     Two  royal-blooded  steeds, 
Held  by  his  grooms,  were  waiting  at  the  gate, 
And  though  I  shrank  from  such  unwonted  state 
The  master's  words  were  manna  to  my  pride, 
And,  mounting  straightway,  forth  we  twain  did  ride 
Unto  the  garden  by  the  river's  side. 


26 


Never  till  then  had  I  beheld  such  bloom. 
The  west  wind  sent  its  heralds  of  perfume 
To  bid  us  welcome,  midway  on  the  road. 
Full  in  the  sun  the  marble  portal  glowed 
Like  silver,  but  within  the  garden  wall 
No  ray  of  sunshine  found  a  place  to  fall, 
So  thick  the  crowning  foliage  of  the  trees, 
Roofing  the  walks  with  twilight ;  and  the  air 
Under  their  tops  was  greener  than  the  seas, 
And  cool  as  they.     The  forms  that  wandered  there 
Resembled  those  who  populate  the  floor 
Of  Ocean,  and  the  royal  lineage  own 
That  gave  a  Princess  unto  Persia's  throne. 
All  fruits  the  trees  of  this  fair  garden  bore, 
Whose  balmy  fragrance  lured  the  tongue  to  taste 
Their  flavors  :  there  bananas  flung  to  waste 
Their  golden  flagons  with  thick  honey  filled ; 
From  splintered  cups  the  ripe  pomegranates  spilled 
A  shower  of  rubies ;  oranges  that  glow 
Like  globes  of  fire,  enclosed  a  heart  of  snow 
Which  thawed  not  in  their  flame  ;  like  balls  of  gold 
The  peaches  seemed,  that  had  in  blood  been  rolled ; 
Pure  saffron  mixed  with  clearest  amber  stained 
The  apricots  ;  bunches  of  amethyst 


27 


And  sapphire  seemed  the  grapes,  so  newly  kissed 

That  still  the  mist  of  Beauty's  breath  remained  , 

And  where  the  lotus  slowly  swung  in  air 

Her  snowy-bosomed  chalice,  rosy-veined, 

The  golden  fruit  swung  softly-cradled  there, 

Even  as  a  bell  upon  the  bosom  swings 

Of  some  fair  dancer  —  happy  bell,  that  sings 

For  joy,  its  golden  tinkle  keeping  time 

To  the  heart's  beating  and  the  cymbal's  chime ! 

There  dates  of  agate  and  of  jasper  lay, 

Dropped  from  the  bounty  of  the  pregnant  palm, 

And  all  ambrosial  trees,  all  fruits  of  balm, 

All  flowers  of  precious  odors,  made  the  day 

Sweet  as  a  morn  of  Paradise.     My  breath 

Failed  with  the  rapture,  and  with  doubtful  mind 

I  turned  to  where  the  garden's  lord  reclined, 

And  asked,  "  Was  not  that  gate  the  Gate  of  Death  ?  " 


VI. 


The  guests  were  near  a  fountain.     As  I  came 
They  rose  in  welcome,  wedding  to  my  name 
Titles  of  honor,  linked  in  choicest  phrase, 
For  Poets'  ears  are  ever  quick  to  Praise, 
The  l  Open  Sesame  ! '  whose  magic  art 
Forces  the  guarded  entrance  of  the  heart. 


28 


Young  men  were  they,  whose  manly  beauty  made 
Their  words  the  sweeter,  and  their  speech  displayed 
Knowledge  of  men,  and  of  the  Prophet's  laws. 
Pleasant  our  converse  was,  where  every  pause 
Gave  to  the  fountain  leave  to  sing  its  song, 
Suggesting  further  speech  ;  until,  ere  long, 
There  came  a  troop  of  swarthy  slaves,  who  bore 
Ewers  and  pitchers  all  of  silver  ore, 
Wherein  we  washed  our  hands  ;  then,  tables  placed, 
And  brought  us  meats  of  every  sumptuous  taste 
That  makes  the  blood  rich  —  pheasants  stuffed  with 

spice  ; 
Young  lambs,  whose  entrails  were  of  cloves  and  rice ; 
Ducks  bursting  with  pistachio  nuts,  and  fish 
That  in  a  bed  of  parsley  swam.     Each  dish, 
Cooked  with  such  art,  seemed  better  than  the  last, 
And  our  indulgence  in  the  rich  repast 
Brought  on  the  darkness  ere  we  missed  the  day : 
But  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  fountain's  spray, 
Or,  pendent  from  the  boughs,  their  colors  told 
What  fruits  unseen,  of  crimson  or  of  gold, 
Scented  the  gloom.     Then  took  the  generous  host 
A  basket  filled  with  roses.     Every  guest 
Cried,  "  Give  me  roses  !  "  and  he  thus  addressed 
His  words  to  all :  "  He  who  exalts  them  most 
In  song,  he  only  shall  the  roses  wear." 


29 


Then  sang  a  guest :  "  The  rose's  cheeks  are  fair  ; 

It  crowns  the  purple  bowl,  and  no  one  knows 

If  the  rose  colors  it,  or  it  the  rose." 

And  sang  another :  "  Crimson  is  its  hue, 

And  on  its  breast  the  morning's  crystal  dew 

Is  changed  to  rubies."     Then  a  third  replied  : 

"  It  blushes  in  the  sun's  enamoured  sight, 

As  a  young  virgin  on  her  wedding  night, 

When  from  her  face  the  bridegroom  lifts  the  veil." 

When  all  had  sung  their  songs,  I,  Hassan,  tried. 

"  The  Rose,"  I  sang,  "  is  either  red  or  pale, 

Like  maidens  whom  the  flame  of  passion  burns, 

And  Love  or  Jealousy  controls,  by  turns. 

Its  buds  are  lips  preparing  for  a  kiss ; 

Its  open  flowers  are  like  the  blush  of  bliss 

On  lovers'  cheeks  ;  the  thorns  its  armor  are, 

And  in  its  centre  shines  a  golden  star, 

As  on  a  favorite's  cheek  a  sequin  glows  — 

And  thus  the  garden's  favorite  is  the  Rose." 


VII. 


The  master  from  his  open  basket  shook 
The  roses  on  my  head.     The  others  took 
Their  silver  cups,  and  filling  them  with  wine, 


Cried,  "  Pledge  our  singing,  Hassan,  as  we  thine ! " 
But  I  exclaimed,  "  What  is  it  I  have  heard  ? 
Wine  is  forbidden  by  the  Prophet's  word  : 
Surely,  O  Friends !  ye  would  not  lightly  break 
The  laws  which  bring  ye  blessing  ?  "    Then   they 

spake  : 
"  O  Poet,  learn  thou  that  the  law  was  made 
For  men,  and  not  for  poets.     Turn  thine  eye 
Within,  and  read  the  nature  there  displayed  ; 
The  gifts  thou  hast  doth  Allah's  grace  deny 
To  common  men  ;  they  lift  thee  o'er  the  rules 
The  Prophet  fixed  for  sinners  and  for  fools. 
The  vine  is  Nature's  poet :  from  his  bloom 
The  air  goes  reeling,  tipsy  with  perfume, 
And  when  the  sun  is  warm  within  his  blood 
It  mounts  and  sparkles  in  a  crimson  flood  ; 
Rich  with  dumb  songs  he  speaks  not,  till  they  find 
Interpretation  in  the  Poet's  mind. 

If  Wine  be  evil,  Song  is  evil  too ; 

Then  cease  thy  singing,  lest  it  bring  thee  sin ; 

But  wouldst  thou  know  the  strains  which  Hafiz  knew, 

Drink  as  he  drank,  and  thus  the  secret  win." 

They  clasped  my  glowing  hands  ;  they  held  the  bowl 

Up  to  my  lips,  till,  losing  all  control 

Of  the  fierce  thirst,  which  at  my  scruples  laughed, 

I  drained  the  goblet  at  a  single  draught. 


31 


It  ran  through  every  limh  like  fluid  fire  : 
"  More,  O  my  Friends  !  "  I  cried,  the  new  desire 
Raging  within  me  :  "this  is  life  indeed  ! 
From  blood  like  this  is  coined  the  nobler  seed 
Whence  poets  are  begotten.     Drink  again, 
And  give  us  music  of  a  tender  strain, 
Linking  your  inspiration  unto  mine, 
For  music  hovers  on  the  lips  of  Wine  !  " 


VIII. 


"  Music  !  "  they  shouted,  echoing  my  demand, 
And  answered  with  a  beckon  of  his  hand 
The  gracious  host,  whereat  a  maiden,  fair 
As  the  last  star  that  leaves  the  morning  air, 
Came  down  the  leafy  paths.     Her  veil  revealed 
The  beauty  of  her  face,  which,  half  concealed 
Behind  its  thin  blue  folds,  showed  like  the  moon 
Behind  a  cloud  that  will  forsake  it  soon. 
Her  hair  was  braided  darkness,  but  the  glance 
Of  lightning  eyes  shot  from  her  countenance, 
And  showed  her  neck,  that  like  an  ivory  tower 
Rose  o'er  the  twin  domes  of  her  marble  breast. 
Were  all  the  beauty  of  this  age  compressed 
Into  one  form,  she  would  transcend  its  power. 


Her  step  was  lighter  than  the  young  gazelle's, 

And  as  she  walked,  her  anklet's  golden  bells 

Tinkled  with  pleasure,  but  were  quickly  mute 

With  jealousy,  as  from  a  case  she  drew 

With  snowy  hands  the  pieces  of  her  lute, 

And  took  her  seat  before  me.     As  it  grew 

To  perfect  shape,  her  lovely  arms  she  bent 

Around  the  neck  of  the  sweet  instrument, 

Till  from  her  soft  caresses  it  awoke 

To  consciousness,  and  thus  its  rapture  spoke  : 

"  I  was  a  tree  within  an  Indian  vale, 

When  first  I  heard  the  love-sick  nightingale 

Declare  his  passion  :  every  leaf  was  stirred 

With  the  melodious  sorrow  of  the  bird, 

And  when  he  ceased,  the  song  remained  with  me. 

Men  came  anon,  and  felled  the  harmless  tree, 

But  from  the  memory  of  the  songs  I  heard, 

The  spoiler  saved  me  from  the  destiny 

Whereby  my  brethren  perished.     O'er  the  sea 

I  came,  and  from  its  loud,  tumultuous  moan 

I  caught  a  soft  and  solemn  undertone  ; 

And  when  I  grew  beneath  the  maker's  hand 

To  what  thou  seest,  he  sang  (the  while  he  planned) 

The  mirthful  measures  of  a  careless  heart, 

And  of  my  soul  his  songs  became  a  part. 

Now  they  have  laid  my  head  upon  a  breast  ' 


33 


Whiter  than  marble,  I  am  wholly  blest. 
The  fair  hands  smite  me,  and  my  strings  complain 
With  such  melodious  cries,  they  smite  again, 
Until,  with  passion  and  with  sorrow  swayed, 
My  torment  moves  the  bosom  of  the  maid, 
Who  hears  it  speak  her  own.     I  am  the  voice 
Whereby  the  lovers  languish  or  rejoice  ; 
And  they  caress  me,  knowing  that  my  strain 
Alone  can  speak  the  language  of  their  pain." 


IX. 


Here  ceased  the  fingers  of  the  maid  to  stray 
Over  the  strings  ;  the  sweet  song  died  away 
In  mellow,  drowsy  murmurs,  and  the  lute 
Leaned  on  her  fairest  bosom,  and  was  mute. 
Better  than  wine  that  music  was  to  me : 
Not  the  lute  only  felt  her  hands,  but  she 
Played  on  my  heartstrings,  till  the  sounds  became 
Incarnate  in  the  pulses  of  my  frame. 
Speech  left  my  tongue,  and  in  my  tears  alone 
Found  utterance.     With  stretched  arms  I  implored 
Continuance,  whereat  her  fingers  poured 
A  tenderer  music,  answering  the  tone 
Her  parted  lips  released,  the  while  her  throat 
3 


34 


Throbbed,  as  a  heavenly  bird  were  fluttering  there, 

And  gave  her  voice  the  wonder  of  his  note. 

"  His  brow,"  she  sang,  "  is  white  beneath  his  hair ; 

The  fertile  beard  is  soft  upon  his  chin, 

Shading  the  mouth. that  nestles  warm  within, 

As  a  rose  nestles  in  its  leaves ;  I  see 

His  eyes,  but  cannot  tell  what  hue  they  be, 

For  the  sharp  eyelash,  like  a  sabre,  speaks 

The  martial  law  of  Passion  ;  in  his  cheeks 

The  quick  blood  mounts,  and  then  as  quickly  goes, 

Leaving  a  tint  like  marble  when  a  rose 

Is  held  beside  it :  —  bid  him  veil  his  eyes, 

Lest  all  my  soul  should  unto  mine  arise, 

And  he  behold  it !  "    As  she  sang,  her  glance 

Dwelt  on  my  face  ;  her  beauty,  like  a  lance, 

Transfixed  my  heart.     I  melted  into  sighs, 

Slain  by  the  arrows  of  her  beauteous  eyes. 

"  Why  is  her  bosom  made  "  (I  cried)  "  a  snare  ? 

Why  does  a  single  ringlet  of  her  hair 

Hold  my  heart   captive  ?  "    "  Would   you  know  ?  " 

she  said ; 
"  It  is  that  you  are  mad  with  love,  and  chains 
Were  made  for  madmen."     Then  she  raised  her  head 
With  answering  love,  that  led  to  other  strains, 
Until  the  lute,  which  shared  with  her  the  smart, 
Rocked  as  in  storm  upon  her  beating  heart. 


35 


Thus  to  its  wires  she  made  impassioned  cries : 

"  I  swear  it  by  the  brightness  of  his  eyes  ; 

I  swear  it  by  the  darkness  of  his  hair ; 

By  the  warm  bloom  his  limbs  and  bosom  wear; 

By  the  fresh  pearls  his  rosy  lips  enclose  ; 

By  the  calm  majesty  of  his  repose  ; 

By  smiles  I  coveted,  and  frowns  I  feared, 

And  by  the  shooting  myrtles  of  his  beard  — 

I  swear  it,  that  from  him  the  morning  drew 

Its  freshness,  and  the  moon  her  silvery  hue, 

The  sun  his  brightness,  and  the  stars  their  fire, 

And  musk  and  camphor  all  their  odorous  breath 

And  if  he  answer  not  my  love's  desire 

Day  will  be  night  to  me,  and  Life  be  Death ! " 


Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when,  overcome,  I  fell 
Upon  her  bosom,  where  the  lute  no  more 
That  night  was  cradled  ;  song  was  silenced  well 
With  kisses,  each  one  sweeter  than  before, 
Until  their  fiery  dew  so  long  was  quaffed, 
I  drank  delirium  in  the  infectious  draught. 
The  guests  departed,  but  the  sounds  they  made 
I  heard  not ;  in  the  fountain-haunted  shade 


36 


The  lamps  burned  out ;  the  moon  rode  far  above, 
But  the  trees  chased  her  from  our  nest  of  love. 
Dizzy  with  passion,  in  mine  ears  the  blood 
Tingled  and  hummed  in  a  tumultuous  flood, 
Until  from  deep  to  deep  I  seemed  to  fall, 
Like  him,  who  from  El  Sirat's  hair-drawn  wall 
Plunges  to  endless  gulfs.     In  broken  gleams 
Glimmered  the  things  I  saw,  so  mixed  with  dreams 
The  vain  confusion  blinded  every  sense, 
And  knowledge  left  me.     Then  a  sleep  intense 
Fell  on  my  brain,  and  held  me  as  the  dead, 
Until  a  sudden  tumult  smote  my  head, 
And  a  strong  glare,  as  when  a  torch  is  hurled 
Before  a  sleeper's  eyes,  brought  back  the  world. 


XI. 


Most  wonderful !    The  fountain  and  the  trees 
Had  disappeared,  and  in  the  place  of  these 
I  saw  the  well-known  Gate  of  Victory. 
The  sun  was  high  ;  the  people  looked  at  me, 
And  marvelled  that  a  sleeper  should  be  there 
On  the  hot  pavement,  for  the  second  prayer 
Was  called  from  all  the  minarets.     I  passed 
My  hand  across  my  eyes,  and  found  at  last 


37 


What  man  I  was.    Then  straightway  through  my  heart 

There  ran  a  double  pang  —  the  bitter  smart 

Of  evil  knowledge,  and  the  unhealthy  lust 

Of  sinful  pleasure  ;  and  I  threw  the  dust 

Upon  my  head,  the  burial  of  my  pride  — 

The  ashen  soil,  wherein  I  plant  the  tree 

Of  Penitence.     The  people  saw,  and  cried, 

"  May  God  reward  thee,  Hassan  !    Truly,  thou, 

Whom  men  have  honored,  addest  to  thy  brow 

The  crowning  lustre  of  Humility  : 

As  thou  abasest,  God  exalteth  thee !  " 

Which  when  I  heard,  I  shed  such  tears  of  shame 

As  might  erase  the  record  of  my  blame, 

And  from  that  time  I  have  not  dared  to  curse 

The  unrighteous,  since  the  man  who  seemeth  worse 

Than  I,  may  purer  be  ;  for,  when  I  fell, 

Temptation  reached  a  loftier  pinnacle. 

Therefore,  O  Man  !  be  Charity  thy  aim : 

Praise  cannot  harm,  but  weigh  thy  words  of  blame. 

Distrust  the  Virtue  that  itself  exalts, 

But  turn  to  that  which  doth  avow  its  faults, 

And.  from  Repentance  plucks  a  wholesome  fruit. 

Pardon,  not  Wrath,  is  God's  best  attribute. 


38 


in. 


"  The  tale,  O  Poet !  which  thy  lips  have  told," 
I  said,  "  is  words  of  rubies  set  in  gold. 
Precious  the  wisdom  which  from  evil  draws 
Strength  to  fulfil  the  good,  of  Allah's  laws. 
But  lift  thy  head,  O  Hassan !    Thine  own  words 
Shall  best  console  thee,  for  my  tongue  affords 
No  phrase  but  thanks  for  what  thou  hast  bestowed  ; 
And  yet  I  fain  would  have  thee  shake  the  load 
Of  shame  from  off  thy  shoulders,  seeing  still 
That  by  this  fall  thou  hast  increased  thy  will 
To  do  the  work  which  makes  thee  truly  blest." 
Hassan  Ben  Khaled  wept,  and  smote  his  breast : 
"  Hold !  hold,  0  Man !  "  he  cried  :  "  why  make  me 

feel 
A  deeper  shame  ?    Must  I  to  thee  reveal 
That  Sin  is  as  the  leprous  taint  no  art 
Can  cleanse  the  blood  from  ?    In  my  secret  heart 
I  do  believe  I  hold  at  dearer  cost 
The  vanished  Pleasure,  than  the  Virtue  lost." 

So  saying,  he  arose  and  went  his  way  ; 
And  Allah  grant  he  go  no  more  astray. 


THE  ARAB  WARRIOR. 

FROM  THE  ARABIC. 

Go,  ask  of  men  that  know  my  name, 
And  they  the  truth  will  speak, 

That  I'm  the  terror  of  the  strong, 
The  helper  of  the  weak. 

My  spear  has  made  the  dragon  brood 

Succumb  to  galling  bands, 
And  tossed  before  the  jaws  of  War 

The  forage  he  demands. 

I  steer  my  horse  through  stormy  fights, 
,  As  a  seaman  steers  his  craft ; 

My  joy,  to  splinter  on  my  breast 
The  foeman's  flying  shaft. 


40 

I  am  the  latest  laid  to  rest, 
The  earliest  in  the  fight, 

And  while  the  others  idly  feast 
I  rub  my  harness  bright. 

And  while  the  booty  they  divide 
I  heap  the  ranks  of  slain, 

And  when  they  scorn  my  poverty, 
I  scorn  their  greed  of  gain. 


41 


ARAB  PRAYER. 

"  La  illah  iV  Allah  !  "  the  muezzin's  call 
Comes  from  the  minaret,  slim  and  tall, 
That  looks  o'er  the  distant  city's  wall. 

"  La  illah  iV  Allah  !  "  the  Faithful  heed, 
With  God  and  the  Prophet  this  hour  to  plead 
Whose  ear  is  open  to  hear  their  need. 

The  sun  is  sunken  ;  no  vapor  mars 
The  path  of  his  going  with  dusky  bars. 
The  silent  Desert  awaits  the  stars. 

I  bend  the  knee  and  I  stretch  the  hand, 
I  strike  my  forehead  upon  the  sand, 
And  I  pray  aloud,  that  He  understand. 


42 


Not  for  my  father,  for  he  is  dead  ; 
Not  in  my  wandering  brothers'  stead  — 
For  myself  alone  I  bow  the  head. 

God  is  Great,  and  God  is  Just : 

He  knoweth  the  hearts  of  the  children  of  dust 

He  is  the  Helper ;  in  Him  I  trust. 

My  sword  is  keen  and  my  arm  is  strong 
With  the  sense  of  unforgotten  wrong, 
And  the  hate  that  waits  and  watches  long. 

God,  let  me  wait  for  year  on  year, 

But  let  the  hour  at  last  appear, 

When  Vengeance  makes  my  honor  clear. 

Once  let  me  strike  till  he  is  slain ; 
His  blood  will  cleanse  my  sabre's  stain, 
And  I  shall  stand  erect  again. 

Till  then,  I  wander  to  and  fro, 
Wide  as  the  desert  whirlwinds  go, 
And  seek,  by  the  sun  and  stars,  my  foe. 

Better  than  Stamboul's  courts  of  gold, 
Whose  harems  the  Georgian  girls  infold, 
Whiter  than  snow,  but  not  so.  cold  ; 


43 


Better  than  Baghdad's  garden  bowers, 

Or  fountains  that  play  among  Persian  flowers ; 

Better  than  all  delights  and  powers, 

The  deed  God's  justice  will  abide  — 

The  stern  atonement,  long  denied, 

That  righteous  Vengeance  gives  to  Pride. 


44 


EL  KHALIL. 

I  am  no  chieftain,  fit  to  lead 

Where  spears  are  hurled  and  warriors  bleed ; 

No  poet,  in  my  chanted  rhyme 

To  rouse  the  ghosts  of  ancient  time  ; 

No  magian,  with  a  subtle  ken 

To  rule  the  thoughts  of  other  men  ; 

Yet  far  as  sounds  the  Arab  tongue 

My  name  is  known  to  old  and  young. 

My  form  has  lost  its  pliant  grace, 
There  is  no  beauty  in  my  face, 
There  is  no  cunning  in  my  arm, 
The  Children  of  the  Sun  to  charm  ; 
Yet,  where  I  go,  my  people's  eyes 
Are  lighted  with  a  glad  surprise, 
And  in  each  tent  a  couch  is  free, 
And  by  each  fire  a  place,  for  me. 


45 


They  watch 'me  from  the  palms,  and  some 
Proclaim  my  coming  ere  I  come. 
The  children  lift  my  hand  to  meet 
The  homage  of  their  kisses  sweet ; 
With  manly  warmth  the  men  embrace, 
The  veiled  maidens  seek  my  face, 
And  eyes,  fresh  kindled  from  the  heart, 
Keep  loving  watch  when  I  depart. 

On  God,  the  Merciful,  I  call, 
To  shed  His  blessing  over  all  : 
I  praise  His  name,  for  he  is  Great, 
And  Loving,  and  Compassionate  ; 
And  for  the  gift  of  love  I  give  — 
The  breath  of  life  whereby  I  live  — 
He  gives  me  back,  in  overflow, 
His  children's  love,  where'er  I  go. 

Deep  sunk  in  sin  the  man  must  be 
That  has  no  friendly  word  for  me. 
I  pass  through  tribes  whose  trado  is  death, 
And  not  a  sabre  quits  the  sheath  ; 
For,  strong  and  cruel  as  they  prove, 
The  sons  of  men  are  weak  to  Love. 
The  humblest  gifts  to  them  I  bring; 
Yet  in  their  hearts  I  rule,  a  king. 


46 


ODE  TO  INDOLENCE. 


Find  me  a  bower,  in  silent  dells  embayed, 

And  trebly  guarded  from  each  wind  that  blows, 

Where  the  blue  noon  o'erroofs  the  tranquil  shade, 
And  poppies  breathe  an  odor  of  repose ; 

Where  never  noises  from  the  distant  world 
Disturb  the  happy  calm  of  soul  and  sense, 

But  in  thy  haven  every  sail  is  furled, 
Divinest  Indolence ! 

There  shall  I  summon  all  melodious  measures, 

And  feel  the  hymns  to  thee,  I  sing  to  other  Pleasures. 


47 


ii. 


"Within  thy  realm  the  vexing  tempests  die 

That  strip  the  leaves  from  Life's  aspiring  tree, 

And  fairer  blossoms  open  in  thy  sky, 
To  richer  fruits  maturing  peacefully. 

What  is  the  clangor  of  Ambition's  car 
To  thine  eternal  silence  ?    To  thy  rest, 
What  are  the  stormy  joys  that  shake  the  breast, 

And  Passion's  cloud,  that  leaves  the  thunder-scar  ? 

On  brows  that  burn  with  Toil's  relentless  fever 

Thy  pitying  hand  is  laid,  and  they  have  calm  forever. 


in. 


Where  thou  dost  sit,  the  shadow  of  Despair 
Fell  never ;  Hate  and  Envy  thence  depart ; 

Turn  from  thy  gate  the  baffled  hounds  of  Care, 
And  the  great  strength  of  slumber  fills  the  heart. 

Even  Love  himself,  far  exiled,  in  thy  bower, 
From  the  bright  paths  of  rapture  which  he  trod, 
Folds  up  his  wing  :  in  Indian  Song,  the  god 

Was  born  beneath  the  sleepy  lotus-flower. 

The  only  fugitive  escaped  the  riot, 

His  presence  glorifies  thy  charmed  elysian  quiet. 


IV. 


Far  from  thee  drift  the  shattered  hulks  of  life ; 

But  the  wrecked  spirit  slumbers  at  thy  feet, 
And,  harbored  now  from  every  wave  of  strife, 

Feels  the  strong  pulses  of  Existence  beat. 
There  hears  the  heart  its  native  language,  free 

From  the  world's  clamor ;  with  enlightened  eyes 

There  doth  the  soul  its  features  recognize, 
And  read  its  destiny ! 
The  dark  enigmas  which  perplexed  the  sense 
Fade  in  the  wisdom,  born  of  Indolence. 


v. 


Yea,  let  men  struggle,  toil,  exult,  and  win 
The  pigmy  triumphs  which  they  fret  to  wear ; 

But  I  will  fly  the  curse  of  primal  sin, 
And  in  thy  lap  the  peace  of  Eden  share. 

Serener  than  a  star  on  Twilight's  breast, 
A  sea-flower,  deep  below  the  tropic  waves, 
Or  sparry  foliage  of  the  dsedal  caves, 

My  life  shall  blossom  in  thine  arms  of  rest. 

My  breath  grows  calm  ;  my  weary  eyelids  close ; 

And  the  pursuing  Fates  have  left  me  to  repose. 


49 


SONG. 

Daughter  of  Egypt,  veil  thine  eyes  ! 

I  cannot  bear  their  fire  ; 
Nor  will  I  touch  with  sacrifice 

Those  altars  of  Desire. 
For  they  are  flames  that  shun  the  day, 

And  their  unholy  light 
Is  fed  from  natures  gone  astray 

In  passion  and  in  night. 

The  stars  of  Beauty  and  of  Sin, 

They  burn  amid  the  dark, 
Like  beacons  that  to  ruin  win 

The  fascinated  bark. 
Then  veil  their  glow,  lest  I  forswear 

The  hopes  thou  canst  not  crown, 
And  in  the  black  waves  of  thy  hair 

My  struggling  manhood  drown  ! 
4 


50 


AMRAN'S   WOOING. 


You  ask,  O  Frank !  how  Love  is  born 
Within  these  glowing  climes  of  Morn, 
Where  envious  veils  conceal  the  charms 
That  tempt  a  Western  lover's  arms, 
And  how,  without  a  voice  or  sound, 
From  heart  to  heart  the  path  is  found, 
Since  on  the  eye  alone  is  flung 
The  burden  of  the  silent  tongue. 
You  hearken  with  a  doubtful  smile 
Whene'er  the  wandering  bards  beguile 
Our  evening  indolence  with  strains 
Whose  words  gush  molten  through  our  veins 
The  songs  of  Love,  but  half  confessed, 
Where  Passion  sobs  on  Sorrow's  breast, 
And  mighty  longings,  tender  fears, 
Steep  the  strong  heart  in  fire  and  tears. 


51 


The  source  of  each  accordant  strain 
Lies  deeper  than  the  Poet's  brain. 
First  from  the  people's  heart  must  spring 
The  passions  which  he  learns  to  sing  ; 
They  are  the  wind,  the  harp  is  he, 
To  voice  their  fitful  melody  — 
The  language  of  their  varying  fate, 
Their  pride,  grief,  love,  ambition,  hate  — 
The  talisman  which  holds  inwrought 
The  touchstone  of  the  listener's  thought ; 
That  penetrates  each  vain  disguise, 
And  brings  his  secret  to  his  eyes. 
For,  like  a  solitary  bird 
That  hides  among  the  boughs  unheard 
Until  some  mate,  whose  carol  breaks, 
Its  own  betraying  song  awakes, 
So,  to  its  echo  in  those  lays, 
The  ardent  heart  itself  betrays. 
Crowned  with  a  prophet's  honor,  stands 
The  Poet,  on  Arabian  sands  ; 
A  chief,  whose  subjects  love  his  thrall  — 
The  sympathizing  heart  of  all. 


II. 


Vaunt  not  your  Western  maids  to  me, 
Whose  charms  to  every  gaze  are  free : 
My  love  is  selfish,  and  would  share 
Scarce  with  the  sun,  or  general  air, 
The  sight  of  beauty  which  has  shone 
Once  for  mine  eyes,  and  mine  alone. 
Love  likes  concealment  ;  he  can  dress 
With  fancied  grace  the  loveliness 
That  shrinks  behind  its  virgin  veil, 
As  hides  the  moon  her  forehead  pale 
Behind  a  cloud,  yet  leaves  the  air 
Softer  than  if  her  orb  were  there. 
And  as  the  splendor  of  a  star, 
When  sole  in  heaven,  seems  brighter  far, 
So  shines  the  eye,  Love's  star  and  sun, 
The  brighter,  that  it  shines  alone. 
The  light  from  out  its  darkness  sent 
Is  Passion's  life  and  element ; 
And  when  the  heart  is  warm  and  young, 
Let  but  that  single  ray  be  flung 
Upon  its  surface,  and  the  deep 
Heaves  from  its  unsuspecting  sleep, 
As  heaves  the  ocean  when  its  floor 
Breaks  over  the  volcano's  core. 


53 


Who  thinks  if  cheek  or  lip  be  fair  ? 
Is  not  all  beauty  centred  where 
The  soul  looks  out,  the  feelings  move, 
And  Love  his  answer  gives  to  love  ? 
Look  on  the  sun,  and  you  will  find 
For  other  sights  your  eyes  are  blind. 
Look  —  if  the  colder  blood  you  share 
Can  give  your  heart  the  strength  to  dare 
In  eyes  of  dark  and  tender  fire  : 
What  more  can  blinded  love  desire  ? 


in. 


I  was  a  stripling,  quick  and  bold, 
And  rich  in  pride  as  poor  in  gold, 
When  God's  good  will  my  journey  bent 
One  day  to  Shekh  Abdallah's  tent. 
My  only  treasure  was  a  steed 
Of  Araby's  most  precious  breed  ; 
And  whether  'twas  in  boastful  whim 
To  show  his  mettled  speed  of  limb, 
Or  that  presumption,  which,  in  sooth, 

Becomes  the  careless  brow  of  youth, 

Which  takes  the  world  as  birds  the  air, 
And  moves  in  freedom  every  where,  — 


54 


It  matters  not.     But  'midst  the  tents 
I  rode  in  easy  confidence, 
Till  to  Abdallah's  door  I  pressed 
And  made  myself  the  old  man's  guest. 
My  "  Peace  be  with  you  !  "  was  returned 
With  the  grave  courtesy  he  learned 
From  age  and  long  authority, 
And  in  God's  name  he  welcomed  me. 
The  pipe  replenished,  with  its  stem 
Of  jasmine  wood  and  amber  gem, 
Was  at  my  lips  and  while  I  drew 
The  rosy-sweet,  soft  vapor  through 
In  ringlets  of  dissolving  blue, 
Waiting  his  speech  with  reverence  meet, 
A  woman's  garments  brushed  my  feet, 
And  first  through  boyish  senses  ran 
The  pulse  of  love  which  made  me  man. 
The  handmaid  of  her  father's  cheer, 
With  timid  grace  she  glided  near, 
And,  lightly  dropping  on  her  knee, 
Held  out  a  silver  zerf  to  me, 
Within  whose  cup  the  fragrance  sent 
From  Yemen's  sunburnt  berries  blent 
With  odors  of  the  Persian  rose. 
That  picture  still  in  memory  glows 
With  the  same  heat  as  then  —  the  gush 
Of  fever,  with  its  fiery  flush 


55 


Startling  my  blood  ;  and  I  can  see  — 
As  she  this  moment  knelt  to  me  — 
The  shrouded  graces  of  her  form  ; 
The  half-seen  arm,  so  round  and  warm ; 
The  little  hand,  whose  tender  veins 
Branched  through  the  henna's  orange  stains ; 
The  head,  in  act  of  offering  bent ; 
And  through  the  parted  veil,  which  lent 
A  charm  for  what  it  hid,  the  eye, 
Gazelle-like,  large,  and  dark,  and  shy, 
That  with  a  soft,  sweet  tremble  shone 
Beneath  the  fervor  of  my  own, 
Yet  could  not,  would  not,  turn  away 
The  fascination  of  its  ray, 
But  half  in  pleasure,  half  in  fright, 
Grew  unto  mine,  and  builded  bright 
From  heart  to  heart  a  bridge  of  light. 


IV. 


From  the  fond  trouble  of  my  look 
The  zerf  within  her  fingers  shook,   / 
As  with  a  start,  like  one  who  breaks 
Some  happy  trance  of  thought,  and  wakes 


56 


Unto  forgotten  toil,  she  rose 

And  passed.     I  saw  the  curtains  close 

Behind  her  steps :  the  light  was  gone, 

But  in  the  dark  my  heart  dreamed  on. 

Some  random  words  —  thanks  ill  expressed 

I  to  the  stately  Shekh  addressed, 

With  the  intelligence  which  he, 

My  host,  could  not  demand  of  me  ; 

How,  wandering  in  the  desert  chase, 

I  spied  from  far  his  camping-place, 

And  Arab  honor  bade  me  halt 

To  break  his  bread  and  share  his  salt. 

Thereto,  fit  reverence  for  his  name, 

The  praise  our  speech  is  quick  to  frame, 

Which,  empty  though  it  seem,  was  dear 

To  the  old  warrior's  willing  ear, 

And  led  his  thoughts,  by  many  a  track, 

To  deeds  of  ancient  prowess  back, 

Until  my  love  could  safely  hide 

Beneath  the  covert  of  his  pride. 

And  when  his  "  Go  with  God !  "  was  said, 

Upon  El-Azrek's  back  I  sped 

Into  the  desert,  wide  and  far, 

Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 

And,  fierce  with  passion,  without  heed 

Urged  o'er  the  sands  my  snorting  steed, 


57 


As  if  those  afrites,  feared  of  man,  — 
Who  watch  the  lonely  caravan, 
And,  if  a  loiterer  lags  behind, 
Efface  its  tracks  with  sudden  wind, 
Then  fill  the  air  with  cheating  cries, 
And  make  false  pictures  to  his  eyes 
Till  the  bewildered  sufferer  dies,  — 
Had  breathed  on  me  their  demon  breath, 
And  spurred  me  to  the  hunt  of  Death. 


v. 


Yet  madness  such  as  this  was  worth 
All  the  cool  wisdom  of  the  earth, 
And  sweeter  glowed  its  wild  unrest 
Than  the  old  calm  of  brain  and  breast. 
The  image  of  that  maiden  beamed 
Through  all  I  saw,  or  thought,  or  dreamed, 
Till  she  became,  like  Light  or  Air, 
A  part  of  life.     And  she  shall  share, 
I  vowed,  my  passion  and  my  fate, 
Or  both  shall  fail  me,  soon  or  late, 
In  the  vain  effort  to  possess  ; 
For  Life  lives  only  in  success. 
I  could  not,  in  her  father's  sight, 
Purchase  the  hand  which  was  his  right ; 


58 


And  well  I  knew  how  quick  denied 

The  prayer  would  be  to  empty  pride  ; 

But  Heaven  and  Earth  shall  sooner  move 

Than  bar  the  energy  of  Love. 

The  sinews  of  my  life  became 

Obedient  to  that  single  aim, 

And  desperate  deed  and  patient  thought 

Together  in  its  service  wrought. 

Keen  as  a  falcon,  when  his  eye 

In  search  of  quarry  reads  the  sky, 

I  stole  unseen,  at  eventide, 

Behind  the  well,  upon  whose  side 

The  girls  their  jars  of  water  leaned. 

By  one  long,  sandy  hillock  screened, 

I  watched  the  forms  that  went  and  came, 

With  eyes  that  sparkled  with  the  flame 

Up  from  my  heart  in  flashes  sent, 

As  one  by  one  they  came  and  went 

Amid  the  sunset  radiance  cast 

On  the  red  sands :  they  came  and  passed, 

And  she,  —  thank  God !  —  she  came  at  last! 


VI. 


Then,  while  her  fair  companion  bound 
The  cord  her  pitcher's  throat  around, 


59 


And  steadied  with  a  careful  hand 

Its  slow  descent,  upon  the  sand 

At  the  Shekh's  daughter's  feet,  I  sped 

A  slender  arrow,  shaft  and  head 

With  breathing  jasmine-flowers  entwined, 

And  roses  such  as  on  the  wind 

Of  evening  with  rich  odors  fan 

The  white  kiosks  of  Ispahan. 

A  moment,  fired  with  love  and  hope, 

I  stayed  upon  the  yellow  slope 

El-Azrek's  hoofs,  to  see  her  raise 

Her  startled  eyes  in  sweet  amaze  — 

To  see  her  make  the  unconscious  sign 

Which  recognized  the  gift  as  mine, 

And  place,  before  she  turned  to  part, 

The  flowery  barb  against  her  heart. 


VII. 


Again  the  Shekh's  divan  I  pressed  : 
The  jasmine  pipe  was  brought  the  guest, 
And  Mariam,  lovelier  than  before, 
Knelt  with  the  steamy  cup  once  more. 
O  bliss !  within  those  eyes  to  see 
A  soul  of  love  look  out  on  me  — 


60 


A  fount  of  passion,  which  is  truth 

In  the  wild  dialect  of  Youth  — 

Whose  rich  abundance  is  outpoured 

Like  worship  at  a  shrine  adored, 

And  on  its  rising  deluge  bears 

The  heart  to  raptures  or  despairs. 

While  from  the  cup  the  zerf  contained 

The  foamy  amber  juice  I  drained, 

A  rosebud  in  the  zerf  expressed 

The  sweet  confession  of  her  breast. 

One  glance  of  glad  intelligence, 

And  silently  she  glided  thence. 

"  O  Shekh  !  "  I  cried,  as  she  withdrew, 

(Short  is  the  speech  where  hearts  are  true,) 

"  Thou  hast  a  daughter  :  let  me  be 

A  shield  to  her,  a  sword  to  thee !  " 

Abdallah  turned  his  steady  eye 

Full  on  my  face,  and  made  reply : 

"  It  cannot  be.     The  treasure  sent 

By  God  must  not  be  idly  spent. 

Strong  men  there  are,  in  service  tried, 

Who  seek  the  maiden  for  a  bride  ; 

And  shall  I  slight  their  worth  and  truth 

To  feed  the  passing  flame  of  youth  ?  " 


61 


VIII. 


u  No  passing  flame !  "  my  answer  ran  ; 
"  But  love  which  is  the  life  of  man, 
Warmed  with  his  blood,  fed  by  his  breath, 
And,  when  it  fails  him,  leaves  but  Death. 

0  Shekh,  I  hoped  not  thy  consent ; 
But  having  tasted  in  thy  tent 

An  Arab  welcome,  shared  thy  bread, 

1  come  to  warn  thee  I  shall  wed 
Thy  daughter,  though  her  suitors  be 
As  leaves  upon  the  tamarind  tree. 
Guard  her  as  thou  mayst  guard,  I  swear 
No  other  bed  than  mine  shall  wear 
Her  virgin  honors,  and  thy  race 
Through  me  shall  keep  its  ancient  place. 
Thou'rt  warned,  and  duty  bids  no  more ; 
For,  when  I  next  approach  thy  door, 
Her  child  shall  intercessor  be 

To  build  up  peace  'twixt  thee  and  me." 
A  little  flushed  my  boyish  brow  ; 
But  calmly  then  I  spake,  as  now. 
The  Shekh,  with  dignity  that  flung 
Rebuke  on  my  impetuous  tongue, 


62 


Replied  :  "  The  young  man's  hopes  are  fair  ; 

The  young  man's  blood  would  all  things  dare. 

But  age  is  wisdom,  and  can  bring 

Confusion  on  the  soaring  wing 

Of  reckless  youth.     Thy  words  are  just, 

But  needless  ;  for  I  still  can  trust 

A  father's  jealousy  to  shield 

From  robber  grasp  the  gem  concealed 

Within  his  tent,  till  he  may  yield 

To  fitting  hands  the  precious  store. 

Go,  then,  in  peace  ;  but  come  no  more." 


IX. 


My  only  sequin  served  to  bribe 
A  cunning  mother  of  the  tribe 
To  Mariam's  mind  my  plan  to  bring. 
A  feather  of  the  wild  dove's  wing, 
A  lock  of  raven  gloss  and  stain 
Sheared  from  El-Azrek's  flowing  mane, 
And  that  pale  flower  whose  fragrant  cup 
Is  closed  until  the  moon  comes  up, — 
But  then  a  tenderer  beauty  holds 
Than  any  flower  the  sun  unfolds,  — 


Declared  my  purpose.     Her  reply- 
Let  loose  the  winds  of  ecstasy : 
Two  roses  and  the  moonlight  flower 
Told  the  acceptance,  and  the  hour  — 
Two  daily  suns  to  waste  their  glow, 
And  then,  at  moonrise,  bliss  —  or  woe. 


El-Azrek  now,  on  whom  alone 
The  burden  of  our  fate  was  thrown, 
Claimed  from  my  hands  a  double  meed 
Of  careful  training  for  the  deed. 
I  gave  him  of  my  choicest  store  — 
No  guest  was  ever  honored  more. 
With  flesh  of  kid,  with  whitest  bread, 
And  dates  of  Egypt  was  he  fed ; 
The  camel's  heavy  udders  gave 
Their  frothy  juice  his  thirst  to  lave  : 
A  charger,  groomed  with  better  care, 
The  Sultan  never  rode  to  prayer. 
My  burning  hope,  my  torturing  fear, 
I  breathed  in  his  sagacious  ear  ; 
Caressed  him  as  a  brother  might, 
Implored  his  utmost  speed  in  flight, 


64 


Hung  on  his  neck  with  many  a  vow, 
And  kissed  the  white  star  on  his  brow. 
His  large  and  lustrous  eyeball  sent 
A  look  which  made  me  confident, 
As  if  in  me  some  doubt  he  spied, 
And  met  it  with  a  human  pride. 
"  Enough  :  I  trust  thee.     'Tis  the  hour, 
And  I  have  need  of  all  thy  power. 
Without  a  wing,  God  gives  thee  wings, 
And  Fortune  to  thy  forelock  clings.1' 


XI. 


The  yellow  moon  was  rising  large 
Above  the  Desert's  dusky  marge, 
And  save  the  jackal's  whining  moan, 
Or  distant  camel's  gurgling  groan, 
And  the  lamenting  monotone 
Of  winds  that  breathe  their  vain  desire 
And  on  the  lonely  sands  expire, 
A  silent  charm,  a  breathless  spell, 
Waited  with  me  beside  the  well. 
She  is  not  there  —  not  yet  —  but  soon 
A  white  robe  glimmers  in  the  moon. 


65 


Her  little  footsteps  make  no  sound 
On  the  soft  sand  ;  and  with  a  bound, 
Where  terror,  doubt,  and  love  unite 
To  blind  her  heart  to  all  but  flight, 
Trembling,  and  panting,  and  oppressed, 
She  threw  herself  upon  my  breast. 
By  Allah !  like  a  bath  of  flame 
The  seething  blood  tumultuous  came 
From  life's  hot  centre  as  I  drew 
Her  mouth  to  mine  :  our  spirits  grew 
Together  in  one  long,  long  kiss  — 
One  swooning,  speechless  pulse  of  bliss, 
That,  throbbing  from  the  heart's  core,  met 
In  the  united  lips.     O,  yet 
The  eternal  sweetness  of  that  draught 
Renews  the  thirst  with  which  I  quaffed 
Love's  virgin  vintage :  starry  fire 
Leapt  from  the  twilights  of  desire, 
And  in  the  golden  dawn  of  dreams 
The  space  grew  warm  with  radiant  beams, 
Which  from  that  kiss  streamed  o'er  a  sea 
Of  rapture,  in  whose  bosom  we 
Sank  down,  and  sank  eternally. 
5 


XII. 

Now  nerve  thy  limbs,  El-Azrek !    Fling 
Thy  head  aloft,  and  like  a  wing 
Spread  on  the  wind  thy  cloudy  mane ! 
The  hunt  is  up  :  their  stallions  strain 
The  urgent  shoulders  close  behind, 
And  the  wide  nostril  drinks  the  wind. 
But  thou  art,  too,  of  Nedjid's  breed, 
My  brother !  and  the  falcon's  speed 
Slant  down  the  storm's  advancing  line 
Would  laggard  be  if  matched  with  thine. 
Still  leaping  forward,  whistling  through 
The  moonlight-laden  air,  we  flew; 
And  from  the  distance,  threateningly, 
Came  the  pursuer's  eager  cry. 
Still  forward,  forward,  stretched  our  flight 
Through  the  long  hours  of  middle  night ; 
One  after  one  the  followers  lagged, 
And  even  my  faithful  Azrek  flagged 
Beneath  his  double  burden,  till 
The  streaks  of  dawn  began  to  fill 
The  East,  and,  freshening  in  the  race, 
Their  goaded  horses  gained  apace. 


67 


I  drew  my  dagger,  cut  the  girth, 

Tumbled  my  saddle  to  the  earth, 

And  clasped  with  desperate  energies 

My  stallion's  side  with  iron  knees  ; 

While  Mariam,  clinging  to  my  breast, 

The  closer  for  that  peril  pressed. 

They  come  !  they  come !    Their  shouts  we  hear, 

Now  faint  and  far,  now  fierce  and  near. 

O  brave  El-Azrek !  on  the  track 

Let  not  one  fainting  sinew  slack, 

Or  know  thine  agony  of  flight 

Endured  in  vain  !    The  purple  light 

Of  breaking  morn  has  come  at  last. 

O  joy  !  the  thirty  leagues  are  past ; 

And,  gleaming  in  the  sunrise,  see 

The  white  tents  of  the  Aneyzee ! 

The  warriors  of  the  waste,  the  foes 

Of  Shekh  Abdallah's  tribe,  are  those 

Whose  shelter  and  support  I  claim, 

Which  they  bestow  in  Allah's  name ; 

While,  wheeling  back,  the  baffled  few 

No  longer  ventured  to  pursue. 


XIII. 

And  now,  O  Frank  !  if  you  would  see 

How  soft  the  eyes  that  looked  on  me 

Through  Mariam's  silky  lashes,  scan 

Those  of  my  little  Solyman. 

And  should  you  marvel  if  the  child 

His  stately  grandsire  reconciled 

To  that  bold  theft,  when  years  had  brought 

The  golden  portion  which  he  sought, 

And  what  upon  this  theme  befell, 

The  Shekh  himself  can  better  tell. 


A  PLEDGE  TO  HAFIZ. 

Brim  the  bowls  with  Shiraz  wine ! 
Roses  round  your  temples  twine ; 
Brim  the  bowls  with  Shiraz  wine  — 
Hafiz  pledge  we,  Bard  divine ! 
With  the  summer  warmth  that  glows 
In  the  wine  and  on  the  rose, 
Blushing,  fervid,  ruby-bright, 
We  shall  pledge  his  name  aright. 

Hafiz,  in  whose  measures  move 
Youth  and  Beauty,  Song  and  Love  — 
In  his  veins  the  nimble  flood 
Was  of  wine,  and  not  of  blood. 
All  the  songs  he  sang  or  thought 
In  his  brain  were  never  wrought, 
But  like  rose  leaves  fell  apart 
From  that  bursting  rose,  his  heart. 


70 


Youth  is  morning's  transient  ray  ; 

Love  consumes  itself  away  ; 

Time  destroys  what  Beauty  gives ; 

But  in  Song  the  Poet  lives. 

While  we  pledge  him  —  thus  —  and  thus 

He  is  present  here  in  us ; 

'Tis  his  voice  that  cries,  not  mine  : 

Brim  the  bowls  with  Shiraz  wine ! 


71 


THE  GARDEN  OF  IREM. 

Have  you  seen  the  Garden  of  Irem  ? 

No  mortal  knoweth  the  road  thereto. 

Find  me  a  path  in  the  mists  that  gather 

When  the  sunbeams  scatter  the  morning  dew, 

And  I  will  lead  you  thither. 

Give  me  a  key  to  the  halls  of  the  sun 

When  he  goes  behind  the  purple  sea, 

Or  a  wand  to  open  the  vaults  that  run 

Down  to  the  afrite-guarded  treasures, 

And  I  will  open  its  doors  to  thee. 

Who  hath  tasted  its  countless  pleasures  ? 

Who  hath  breathed,  in  its  winds  of  spice, 

Raptures  deeper  than  Paradise  ? 

Who  hath  trodden  its  ivory  floors, 

Where  the  fount  drops  pearl  from  a  golden  shell, 

And  heard  the  hinges  of  diamond  doors 

Swing  to  the  music  of  Israfel  ? 


72 


Its  roses  blossom,  its  palms  arise, 

By  the  phantom  stream  that  flows  so  fair 

Under  the  Desert's  burning  skies. 

Can  you  reach  that  flood,  can  you  drink  its  tide, 

Can  you  swim  its  waves  to  the  farther  side, 

Your  feet  may  enter  there. 


ii. 


I  have  seen  the  Garden  of  Irem. 

I  found  it,  but  I  sought  it  not : 

Without  a  path,  without  a  guide, 

I  found  the  enchanted  spot : 

Without  a  key  its  golden  gate  stood  wide. 

I  was  young,  and  strong,  and  bold,  and  free 

As  the  milk-white  foal  of  the  Nedjidee, 

And  the  blood  in  my  veins  was  like  sap  of  the  vine, 

That  stirs,  and  mounts,  and  will  not  stop 

Till  the  breathing  blossoms  that  bring  the  wine 

Have  drained  its  balm  to  the  last  sweet  drop. 

Lance  and  barb  were  all  I  knew, 

Till  deep  in  the  Desert  the  spot  I  found, 

Where  the  marvellous  gates  of  Irem  threw 

Their  splendors  over  an  unknown  ground. 

Mine  were  the  pearl  and  ivory  floors, 

Mine  the  music  of  diamond  doors, 


73 


Turning  each  on  a  newer  glory : 
Mine  were  the  roses  whose  bloom  outran 
The  spring-time  beauty  of  Gulistan, 
And  the  fabulous  flowers  of  Persian  story. 
Mine  were  the  palms  of  silver  stems, 
And  blazing  emerald  for  diadems ; 
The  fretted  arch  and  the  gossamer  wreath, 
So  light  and  frail  you  feared  to  breathe ; 
Yet  o'er  them  rested  the  pendent  spars 
Of  domes  bespangled  with  silver  stars, 
And  crusted  gems  of  rare  adorning  : 
And  ever  higher,  like  a  shaft  of  fire, 
The  lessening  links  of  the  golden  spire 
Flamed  in  the  myriad-colored  morning! 

Like  one  who  lies  on  the  marble  lip 
Of  the  blessed  bath  in  a  tranquil  rest, 
And  stirs  not  even  a  finger's  tip 
Lest  the  beatific  dream  should  slip, 
So  did  I  lie  in  Irem's  breast. 
Sweeter  than  Life  and  stronger  than  Death 
Was  every  draught  of  that  blissful  breath  ; 
"Warmer  than  Summer  came  its  glow 
To  the  youthful  heart  in  a  mighty  flood, 
And  sent  its  bold  and  generous  blood 
To  water  the  world  in  its  onward  flow. 


74 


There,  where  the  Garden  of  Irem  lies, 
Are  the  roots  of  the  Tree  of  Paradise, 
And  happy  are  they  who  sit  below, 
When  into  this  world  of  Strife  and  Death 
The  blossoms  are  shaken  by  Allah's  breath. 


75 


THE   BIRTH  OF  THE  HORSE. 

FROM  THE  ARABIC. 

The  South  Wind  blows  from  Paradise  — 

A  wind  of  fire  and  force  ; 
And  yet  his  proudest  merit  is 

That  he  begat  the  Horse. 

When  Allah's  breath  created  first 

The  noble  Arab  steed,  — 
The  conqueror  of  all  his  race 

In  courage  and  in  speed, — 

To  the  South  Wind  He  spake :  From  thee 

A  creature  shall  have  birth, 
To  be  the  bearer  of  my  arms 

And  my  renown  on  Earth. 


76 

The  pride  of  all  the  Faithful,  he  — 

The  terror  of  their  foes  : 
Rider  and  Horse  shall  comrades  be 

In  battle  and  repose. 

Then  to  the  perfect  Horse  He  spake : 

Fortune  to  thee  I  bring ; 
Fortune,  as  long  as  rolls  the  Earth, 

Shall  to  thy  forelock  cling. 

Without  a  pinion  winged  thou  art, 
And  fleetest  with  thy  load  ; 

Bridled  art  thou  without  a  rein, 
And  spurred  without  a  goad. 

Men  shall  bestride  thee  who  have  made 
Their  fame,  their  service,  mine ; 

And,  when  they  pray  upon  their  way, 
Their  prayers  shall  count  as  thine. 

The  worship  which  thy  master  speaks 

Thou  sharest  silently ; 
By  mutual  fate  he  rises  up, 

Or  falls  to  Earth  with  thee. 


77 


THE  WISDOM  OF  ALL 

AN  ARAB  LEGEND. 

The  Prophet  once,  sitting  in  calm  debate, 
Said  :  "lam  Wisdom's  fortress ;  but  the  gate 
Thereof  is  Ali."     Wherefore,  some  who  heard, 
With  unbelieving  jealousy  were  stirred  ; 
And,  that  they  might  on  him  confusion  bring, 
Ten  of  the  boldest  joined  to  prove  the  thing. 
"  Let  us  in  turn  to  Ali  go,"  they  said, 
"  And  ask  if  Wisdom  should  be  sought  instead 
Of  earthly  riches  ;  then,  if  he  reply 
To  each  of  us,  in  thought,  accordantly, 
And  yet  to  none,  in  speech  or  phrase,  the  same, 
His  shall  the  honor  be,  and  ours  the  shame." 

Now,  when  the  first  his  bold  demand  did  make, 
These  were  the  words  which  Ali  straightway  spake 


78 


"  Wisdom  is  the  inheritance  of  those 
Whom  Allah  favors  ;  riches,  of  his  foes." 

Unto  the  second  he  said  :  "  Thyself  must  be 
Guard  to  thy  wealth ;   but  Wisdom  guardeth  thee." 

Unto  the  third  :  "  By  Wisdom  wealth  is  won  ; 
But  riches  purchased  wisdom  yet  for  none." 

Unto  the  fourth  :  "  Thy  goods  the  thief  may  take  ; 
But  into  Wisdom's  house  he  cannot  break." 

Unto  the  fifth  :  "  Thy  goods  decrease  the  more 
Thou  giv'st ;  but  use  enlarges  Wisdom's  store." 

Unto  the  sixth  :  "  Wealth  tempts  to  evil  ways  ; 
But  the  desire  of  Wisdom  is  God's  praise." 

Unto  the  seventh  :  "  Divide  thy  wealth,  each  part 
Becomes  a  pittance.     Give  with  open  heart 
Thy  wisdom,  and  each  separate  gift  shall  be 
All  that  thou  hast,  yet  not  impoverish  thee." 

Unto  the  eighth  :  "  Wealth  cannot  keep  itself ; 
But  Wisdom  is  the  steward  even  of  pelf." 


79 


Unto  the  ninth  :  "  The  camels  slowly  bring 

Thy  goods  ;  but  Wisdom  has  the  swallow's  wing." 

And  lastly,  when  the  tenth  did  question  make, 
These  were  the  ready  words  which  Ali  spake :  — 
"  Wealth  is  a  darkness  which  the  soul  should  fear  ; 
But  Wisdom  is  the  lamp  that  makes  it  clear." 

Crimson  with  shame  the  questioners  withdrew, 

And    they  declared:   "The   Prophet's  words  were 

true ; 
The  mouth  of  Ali  is  the  golden  door 
Of  Wisdom." 

When  his  friends  to  Ali  bore 
These  words,  he  smiled  and  said  :  "  And  should  they 

ask 
The  same  until  my  dying  day,  the  task 
Were  easy ;  for  the  stream  from  Wisdom's  well, 
Which  God  supplies,  is  inexhaustible." 


80 


AN  ORIENTAL  IDYL. 

A  silver  javelin  which  the  hills 
Have  hurled  upon  the  plain  below, 

The  fleetest  of  the  Pharpar's  rills, 
Beneath  me  shoots  in  flashing  flow. 

I  hear  the  never-ending  laugh 

Of  jostling  waves  that  come  and  go, 

And  suck  the  bubbling  pipe,  and  quaff 
The  sherbet  cooled  in  mountain  snow. 

The  flecks  of  sunshine  gleam  like  stars 
Beneath  the  canopy  of  shade  ; 

And  in  the  distant,  dim  bazaars 
I  scarcely  hear  the  hum  of  trade. 


81 


No  evil  fear,  no  dream  forlorn, 

Darkens  my  heaven  of  perfect  blue ; 

My  blood  is  tempered  to  the  morn  — 
My  veiy  heart  is  steeped  in  dew. 

What  Evil  is  I  cannot  tell ; 

But  half  I  guess  what  Joy  may  be ; 
And,  as  a  pearl  within  its  shell, 

The  happy  spirit  sleeps  in  me. 

I  feel  no  more  the  pulse's  strife, — 
The  tides  of  Passion's  ruddy  sea,  — 

But  live  the  sweet,  unconscious  life 

That  breathes  from  yonder  jasmine  tree. 

Upon  the  glittering  pageantries 
Of  gay  Damascus  streets  I  look 

As  idly  as  a  babe  that  sees 

The  painted  pictures  of  a  book. 

Forgotten  now  are  name  and  race  ; 

The  Past  is  blotted  from  my  brain , 
For  Memory  sleeps,  and  will  not  trace 

The  weary  pages  o'er  again. 
6 


82 


I  only  know  the  morning  shines, 
And  sweet  the  dewy  morning  air ; 

But  does  it  play  with  tendrilled  vines  ? 
Or  does  it  lightly  lift  my  hair  ? 

Deep-sunken  in  the  charmed  repose, 
This  ignorance  is  bliss  extreme : 

And  whether  I  be  Man,  or  Rose, 

O,  pluck  me  not  from  out  my  dream ! 


83 


THE  ANGEL  OF  PATIENCE. 

"  Patience  is  the  key  of  Content."  — Mahomet. 

To  cheer,  to  help  us,  children  of  the  dust, 
More  than  one  angel  has  Our  Father  given ; 

But  one  alone  is  faithful  to  her  trust  — 

The  best,  the  brightest  exile  out  of  Heaven. 

Her  ways  are  not  the  ways  of  pleasantness ; 

Her  paths  are  not  the  lightsome  paths  of  joy , 
She  walks  with  wrongs  that  cannot  find  redress, 

And  dwells  in  mansions  Time  and  Death  destroy. 

She  waits  until  her  stern  precursor,  Care, 
Has  lodged  on  foreheads,  open  as  the  morn, 

To  plough  his  deep,  besieging  trenches  there  — 
The  signs  of  struggles  which  the  heart  has  borne. 


84 


But  when  the  first  cloud  darkens  in  our  sky, 
And  face  to  face  with  Life  we  stand  alone, 

Silent  and  swift,  behold !  she  dravveth  nigh, 
And  mutely  makes  our  sufferings  her  own. 

Though  with  its  bitterness  the  heart  runs  o'er, 
No  words  the  sweetness  of  her  lips  divide ; 

But  when  the  eye  looks  up  for  light  once  more, 
She  turns  the  cloud  and  shows  its  golden  side. 

Unto  rebellious  souls,  that,  mad  with  Fate, 
To  question  God's  eternal  justice  dare, 

She  points  above  with  looks  that  whisper,  "  Wait 
What  seems  confusion  here  is  wisdom  there." 

To  the  vain  challenges  of  doubt  we  send, 
No  answering  comfort  doth  she  minister ;' 

Her  face  looks  ever  forward  to  the  end, 
And  we,  who  see  it  not,  are  led  by  her. 

She  doth  not  chide,  nor  in  reproachful  guise 
The  griefs  we  cherish  rudely  thrust  apart ; 

But  in  the  light  of  her  immortal  eyes 
Revives  the  manly  courage  of  the  heart. 


Daughter  of  God  !  who  walkest  with  us  here, 
Who  mak'st  our  every  tribulation  thine, 

Such  light  hast  thou  in  Earth's  dim  atmosphere, 
How  must  thy  seat  in  Heaven  exalted  shine ! 

How  fair  thy  presence  by  those  living  streams 

Where  Sin  and  Sorrow  from  their  troubling  cease  ! 

Where  on  thy  brow  the  crown  of  amaranth  gleams, 
And  in  thy  hand  the  golden  key  of  Peace  ! 


86 


BEDOUIN   SONG. 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire  ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 
In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry : 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee, 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 


87 


Let  the  night- winds  touch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 

Till  the  sun  grotos  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 


DESERT  HYMN  TO  THE  SUN. 


Under  the  arches  of  the  morning  sky, 

Save  in  one  heart,  there  beats  no  life  of  Man ; 

The  yellow  sand-hills  bleak  and  trackless  lie, 
And  far  behind  them  sleeps  the  caravan. 

A  silence,  as  before  Creation,  broods 

Sublimely  o'er  the  desert  solitudes. 


ii. 


A  silence  as  if  God  in  Heaven  were  still, 
And  meditating  some  new  wonder  !     Earth 

And  Air  the  solemn  portent  own,  and  thrill 
With  awful  prescience  of  the  coming  birth. 

And  Night  withdraws,  and  on  their  silver  cars 

Wheel  to  remotest  space  the  trembling  Stars. 


III. 


See  !  an  increasing  brightness,  broad  and  fleet, 
Breaks  on  the  morning  in  a  rosy  flood, 

As  if  He  smiled  to  see  His  work  complete, 
And  rested  from  it,  and  pronounced  it  good. 

The  sands  lie  still,  and  every  wind  is  furled  : 

The  Sun  comes  up,  and  looks  upon  the  world. 

IV. 

Is  there  no  burst  of  music  to  proclaim 

The  pomp  and  majesty  of  this  new  lord  ?  — 

A  golden  trumpet  in  each  beam  of  flame, 
Startling  the  universe  with  grand  accord  ? 

Must  Earth  be  dumb  beneath  the  splendors  thrown 

From  his  full  orb  to  glorify  her  own  ? 

v. 

No  :  with  an  answering  splendor,  more  than  sound 

Instinct  with  gratulation,  she  adores. 
With  purple  flame  the  porphyry  hills  are  crowned, 

And  burn  with  gold  the  Desert's  boundless  floors ; 
And  the  lone  Man  compels  his  haughty  knee, 
And,  prostrate  at  thy  footstool,  worships  thee. 


90 


VI. 


Before  the  dreadful  glory  of  thy  face 
He  veils  his  sight ;  he  fears  the  fiery  rod 

Which  thou  dost  wield  amid  the  brightening  space, 
As  if  the  sceptre  of  a  visible  god. 

If  not  the  shadow  of  God's  lustre,  thou 

Art  the  one  jewel  flaming  on  His  brow. 

N 

VII. 

Art  thou,  O  Sun,  Vicegerent  of  His  will, 
To  make  on  Earth  His  presence  manifest  ? 

By  Him  created,  yet  creator  still, 

Great  Nature  draws  her  being  from  thy  breast : 

Where  thou  art,  Life's  innumerous  pulses  play ; 

And  where  thou  art  not,  Death  and  fell  Decay. 

VIII. 

Wrap  me  within  the  mantle  of  thy  beams, 
And  feed  my  pulses  with  thy  keenest  fire ! 

Here,  where  thy  full  meridian  deluge  streams 
Across  the  Desert,  let  my  blood  aspire 

To  ripen  in  the  vigor  of  thy  blaze, 

And  catch  a  warmth  to  shine  through  darker  days ! 


91 


IX. 


I  am  alone  before  thee  :   Lord  of  Light ! 

Begetter  of  the  life  of  things  that  live  ! 
Beget  in  me  thy  calm,  self-balanced  might ; 

To  me  thine  own  immortal  ardor  give. 
Yea,  though,  like  her  who  gave  to  Jove  her  charms, 
My  being  wither  in  thy  fiery  arms. 

x. 

Whence  came  thy  splendors  ?     Heaven  is  filled  with 
thee; 

The  sky's  blue  walls  are  dazzling  with  thy  train ; 
Thou  sitt'st  alone  in  the  Immensity, 

And  in  thy  lap  the  World  grows  young  again. 
Bathed  in  such  brightness,  drunken  with  the  Day, 
He  deems  the  Dark  forever  passed  away. 


XL 

But  thou  dost  sheathe  thy  trenchant  sword,  and  lean 
With  tempered  grandeur  towards  the  western  gate  ; 

Shedding  thy  glory  with  a  brow  serene, 

And  leaving  heaven  all  golden  with  thy  state : 

Not  as  a  king  discrowned  and  overthrown, 

But  one  who  keeps,  and  shall  reclaim,  his  own. 


92 


NILOTIC  DRINKING-SONG. 


You  may  water  your  bays,  brother-poets,  with  lays 

That  brighten  the  cup  from  the  stream  you  doat  on, 
By  the  Schuylkill's  side,  or  Cochituate's  tide, 
Or  the  crystal  lymph  of  the  mountain  Croton : 

(We  may  pledge  from  these 

In  our  summer  ease, 
Nor  even  Anacreon's  shade  revile  us  — ) 

But  I,  from  the  flood 

Of  his  own  brown  blood, 
Will  drink  to  the  glory  of  ancient  Nilus  ! 


Cloud  never  gave  birth,  nor  cradle  the  Earth, 
To  river  so  grand  and  fair  as  this  is  : 

Not  the  waves  that  roll  us  the  gold  of  Pactolus, 
Nor  cool  Cephissus,  nor  classic  llissus. 


93 


The  lily  may  dip 

Her  ivory  lip 
To  kiss  the  ripples  of  clear  Eurotas  ; 

But  the  Nile  brings  balm 

From  the  myrrh  and  palm, 
And  the  ripe,  voluptuous  lips  of  the  lotus. 

in. 

The  waves  that  ride  on  his  mighty  tide 

Were  poured  from  the  urns  of  unvisited  mountains  ; 
And  their  sweets  of  the  South  mingle  cool  in  the  mouth 
With  the  freshness  and  sparkle  of  Northern  fountains. 
Again  and  again 
The  goblet  we  drain  — 
Diviner  a  stream  never  Nereid  swam  on  : 
For  Isis  and  Orus 
Have  quaffed  before  us, 
And  Ganymede  dipped  it  for  Jupiter  Ammon. 

IV. 

Its  blessing  he  pours  o'er  his  thirsty  shores, 
And  floods  the  regions  of  Sleep  and  Silence, 

When  he  makes  oases  in  desert  places, 

And  the  plain  is  a  sea,  the  hills  are  islands. 


94 


And  had  I  the  brave 

Anacreon's  stave, 
And  lips  like  the  honeyed  lips  of  Hylas, 

I'd  dip  from  his  brink 

My  bacchanal  drink, 
And  sing  for  the  glory  of  ancient  Nilus ! 


95 


CAMADEVA. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  mystic  planets  seven, 

Shone  with  a  purer  and  serener  flame, 
And  there  was  joy  on  Earth  and  joy  in  Heaven 
When  Camadeva  came. 

The  blossoms  burst,  like  jewels  of  the  air, 

Putting  the  colors  of  the  morn  to  shame  ; 
Breathing  their  odorous  secrets  every  where 
When  Camadeva  came. 

The  birds,  upon  the  tufted  tamarind  spray, 

Sat  side  by  side  and  cooed  in  amorous  blame  , 
The  lion  sheathed  his  claws  and  left  his  prey 
When  Camadeva  came. 


96 


The  sea  slept,  pillowed  on  the  happy  shore ; 

The  mountain-peaks  were  bathed  in  rosy  flame  ; 
The  clouds  went  down  the  sky  —  to  mount  no  more 
When  Camadeva  came. 


The  hearts  of  all  men  brightened  like  the  morn ; 

The  poet's  harp  then  first  deserved  its  fame, 
For  rapture  sweeter  than  he  sang  was  born 
When  Camadeva  came. 


All  breathing  life  a  newer  spirit  quaffed, 
A  second  life,  a  bliss  beyond  a  name, 
And  Death,  half-conquered,  dropped  his  idle  shaft 
When  Camadeva  came. 


97 


NUBIA. 

A  land  of  Dreams  and  Sleep  —  a  poppied  land  I 
With  skies  of  endless  calm  above  her  head, 
The  drowsy  warmth  of  summer  noonday  shed 
Upon  her  hills,  and  silence  stern  and  grand 
Throughout  her  Desert's  temple-burying  sand. 
Before  her  threshold,  in  their  ancient  place, 
With  closed  lips,  and  fixed,  majestic  face, 
Noteless  of  Time,  her  dumb  colossi  stand. 
O,  pass  them  not  with  light,  irreverent  tread  ; 
Respect  the  dream  that  builds  her  fallen  throne, 
And  soothes  her  to  oblivion  of  her  woes. 
Hush  !  for  she  does  but  sleep  ;  she  is  not  dead  : 
Action  and  Toil  have  made  the  world  their  own, 
But  she  hath  built  an  altar  to  Repose. 
7 


KILIMANDJARO. 


Hail  to  thee,  monarch  of  African  mountains, 
Remote,  inaccessible,  silent,  and  lone  — 
Who,  from  the  heart  of  the  tropical  fervors, 
Liftest  to  heaven  thine  alien  snows, 
Feeding  forever  the  fountains  that  make  thee 
Father  of  Nile  and  Creator  of  Egypt ! 


ii. 


The  years  of  the  world  are  engraved  on  thy  forehead  ; 
Time's  morning  blushed  red  on  thy  first-fallen  snows  ; 
Yet  lost  in  the  wilderness,  nameless,  unnoted, 
Of  Man  unbeholden,  thou  wert  not  till  now. 
Knowledge  alone  is  the  being  of  Nature, 


99 


Giving  a  soul  to  her  manifold  features, 
Lighting  through  paths  of  the  primitive  darkness 
The  footsteps  of  Truth  and  the  vision  of  Song. 
Knowledge  has  born  thee  anew  to  Creation, 
And  long-baffled  Time  at  thy  baptism  rejoices. 
Take,  then,  a  name,  and  be  filled  with  existence, 
Yea,  be  exultant  in  sovereign  glory, 
While  from  the  hand  of  the  wandering  poet 
Drops  the  first  garland  of  song  at  thy  feet. 


in. 


Floating  alone,  on  the  flood  of  thy  making, 
Through  Africa's  mystery,  silence,  and  fire, 
Lo  !  in  my  palm,  like  the  Eastern  enchanter, 
I  dip  from  the  waters  a  magical  mirror,  * 

And  thou  art  revealed  to  my  purified  vision. 
I  see  thee,  supreme  in  the  midst  of  thy  co-mates, 
Standing  alone  'twixt  the  Earth  and  the  Heavens, 
Heir  of  the  Sunset  and  Herald  of  Morn. 
Zone  above  zone,  to  thy  shoulders  of  granite, 
The  climates  of  Earth  are  displayed,  as  an  index, 
Giving  the  scope  of  the  Book  of  Creation. 
There,  in  the  gorges  that  widen,  descending 
From  cloud  and  from  cold  into  summer  eternal, 


100 


Gather  the  threads  of  the  ice-gendered  fountains  — 
Gather  to  riotous  torrents  of  crystal, 
And,  giving  each  shelvy  recess  where  they  dally 
The  blooms  of  the  North  and  its  evergreen  turfage, 
Leap  to  the  land  of  the  lion  and  lotus  ! 
There,  in  the  wondering  airs  of  the  Tropics 
Shivers  the  Aspen,  still  dreaming  of  cold  : 
There  stretches  the  Oak,  from  the  loftiest  ledges, 
His  arms  to  the  far-away  lands  of  his  brothers, 
And  the  Pine-tree  looks  down  on  his  rival,  the  Palm. 


IV. 


Bathed  in  the  tenderest  purple  of  distance, 

Tinted  and  shadowed  by  pencils  of  air, 

Thy  battlements  hang  o'er  the  slopes  and  the  forests, 

Seats  of  the  Gods  in  the  limitless  ether, 

Looming  sublimely  aloft  and  afar. 

Above  them,  like  folds  of  imperial  ermine, 

Sparkle  the  snow-fields  that  furrow  thy  forehead  — 

Desolate  realms,  inaccessible,  silent, 

Chasms  and  caverns  where  Day  is  a  stranger, 

Garners  where  storeth  his  treasures  the  Thunder, 

The  Lightning  his  falchion,  his  arrows  the  Hail ! 


101 


Sovereign  Mountain,  thy  brothers  give  welcome  : 
They,  the  baptized  and  the  crowned  of  ages, 
Watch-towers  of  Continents,  altars  of  Earth, 
Welcome  thee  now  to  their  mighty  assembly. 
Mont  Blanc,  in  the  roar  of  his  mad  avalanches, 
Hails  thy  accession  ;  superb  Orizaba, 
Belted  with  beech  and  ensandalled  with  palm  ; 
Chimborazo,  the  lord  of  the  regions  of  noonday,  — 
Mingle  their  sounds  in  magnificent  chorus 
With  greeting  august  from  the  Pillars  of  Heaven, 
Who,  in  the  urns  of  the  Indian  Ganges 
Filter  the  snows  of  their  sacred  dominions, 
Unmarked  with  a  footprint,  unseen  but  of  God. 


VI. 


Lo  !  unto  each  is  the  seal  of  his  lordship, 
Nor  questioned  the  right  that  his  majesty  giveth 
Each  in  his  awful  supremacy  forces 
Worship  and  reverence,  wonder  and  joy. 
Absolute  all,  yet  in  dignity  varied, 


102 


None  has  a  claim  to  the  honors  of  story, 
Or  the  superior  splendors  of  song, 
Greater  than  thou,  in  thy  mystery  mantled  — 
Thou,  the  sole  monarch  of  African  mountains, 
Father  of  Nile  and  Creator  of  Egypt ! 


103 


MIMOSA  BLOOMS. 

I  breathe  your  perfume,  blessed  flowers  ; 

And  looking  out,  the  blue  waves  o'er, 
From  Cadiz  and  her  snow-white  towers, 

I  see  the  Egyptian  shore. 

Grateful  as  joy  that  comes  again 
With  solace  sweeter  than  erewhile, 

Your  balsam  fills  my  heart,  as  then, 
Beside  the  palmy  Nile. 

Your  golden  dust  is  on  the  sands 

Where  yet  my  transient  footprint  lies  ; 

And  in  the  heaven  of  brighter  lands 
Your  little  stars  arise. 


104 

Ye  fringe  with  down  the  thorny  stems ; 

Ye  flood  the  year  with  balm  and  spice, 
More  precious  than  the  plant  that  gems 

The  dells  of  Paradise. 

Pure  as  a  sinless  virgin's  prayer, 
Sweet  as  a  sleeping  infant's  breath, 

Ye  mingle  with  the  solemn  air 
Of  old  Repose  and  Death. 

Ye  bear  the  bliss  of  Spring  to  realms 
Where  endless  Summer  rules  the  hours  ; 

Noon's  fiery  deluge  ne'er  o'erwhelms 
The  morning  of  your  flowers. 

Types  of  a  Faith  whose  odors  free 
Gently  the  stress  of  Life  beguile, 

Long  may  ye  bloom  and  breathe  for  me, 
Ye  darlings  of  the  Nile  ! 


105 


THE   BIRTH   OF  THE   PROPHET. 


Thrice  three  moons  had  waxed  in  heaven,  thrice  three 

moons  had  waned  away, 
Since  Abdullah,  faint  and  thirsty,  on  the  Desert's  bosom 

lay 
In    the   fiery  lap    of    Summer,  the    meridian   of   the 

day;  — 


Since  from  out  the  sand  upgushing,  lo !  a  sudden  foun- 
tain leapt ; 

Sweet  as  musk  and  clear  as  amber,  to  his  parching  lips 
it  crept. 

When  he  drank  it  straightway  vanished,  but  his  blood 
its  virtue  kept. 


106 


in. 


Ere  the  morn  his  forehead's  lustre,  signet  of  the  Proph- 
et's line, 

To  the  beauty  of  Amina  had  transferred  its  flame  di- 
vine : 

Of  the  germ  within  her  sleeping,  such  the  consecrated 
sign. 


IV. 


And  with  every  moon  that  faded  waxed  the  splendor 

more  and  more, 
Till  Amina's  beauty  lightened  through  the  matron  veil 

she  wore, 
And  the  tent  was  filled  with  glory,  and  of  Heaven  it 

seemed  the  door. 


When  her  quickened  womb  its  burden  had  matured, 
and  Life  began 

Struggling  in  its  living  prison,  through  the  wide  Crea- 
tion ran 

Premonitions  of  the  coming  of  a  God-appointed 
man. 


107 


VI. 


For    the    oracles    of  Nature    recognize    a   Prophet's 

birth  — 
Blossom  of  the  tardy  ages,  crowning  type  of  human 

worth  — 
And  by  miracles  and  wonders  he  is  welcomed  to  the 

Earth. 


VII. 


Then  the  stars  in  heaven  grew  brighter,  stooping  down- 
ward from  their  zones ; 

Wheeling  round  the  towers  of  Mecca,  sang  the  moon 
in  silver  tones, 

And  the  Kaaba's  grisly  idols  trembled  on  their  granite 
thrones. 


VIII. 


Mighty  arcs  of  rainbow  splendor,  pillared  shafts  of  pur- 
ple fire, 

Split  the  sky  and  spanned  the  darkness,  and  with  many 
a  golden  spire, 

Beacon-like,  from  all  the  mountains  streamed  the  lam- 
bent  meteors  higher. 


108 


IX. 


But  when  first  the  breath  of  being  to  the  sacred  infant 

came, 
Paled  the  pomp  of  airy  lustre,  and  the  stars  grew  dim 

with  shame, 
For  the  glory  of  his  countenance  outshone  their  feebler 

flame. 


Over  Nedjid's   sands   it  lightened,  unto  Oman's   coral 

deep, 
Startling  all  the  gorgeous  regions  of  the  Orient  from 

sleep, 
Till,  a  sun  on  night  new-risen,  it  illumed  the  Indian 

steep. 


XI. 


They  who  dwelt  in  Mecca's  borders  saw  the  distant 

realms  appear 
All  around   the  vast  horizon,  shining  marvellous  and 

clear, 
From  the  gardens  of  Damascus  unto  those  of  Bendo 

meer. 


109 


XII. 


From  the  colonnades  of  Tadmor  to  the  hills  of  Hadra- 

maut, 
Ancient  Araby  was  lighted,  and  her  sands  the  splendor 

caught, 
Till  the  magic  sweep  of  vision  overtook  the  track  of 

Thought. 


XIII. 


Such  on  Earth  the  wondrous  glory,  but  beyond  the 
sevenfold  skies 

God  His  mansions  filled  with  gladness,  and  the  seraphs 
saw  arise 

Palaces  of  pearl  and  ruby  from  the  founts  of  Para- 
dise. 


XIV. 


As  the  surge  of  heavenly  anthems  shook  the  solemn 

midnight  air, 
From  the  shrines  of  false  religions  came  a  wailing  of 

despair, 
And  the  fires  on  Pagan  altars  were  extinguished  every 

where. 


110 


xv. 


'Mid  the  sounds  of  salutation,  'mid  the  splendor  and  the 

balm, 
Knelt  the  sacred   child,  proclaiming,  with  a  brow  of 

heavenly  calm  : 
u  God  is  God ;  there  is  none  other ;  I  his  chosen  Prophet 

am!" 


Ill 


TO  THE   NILE. 

Mysterious  Flood,  —  that  through  the  silent  sands 

Hast  wandered,  century  on  century, 
Watering  the  length  of  green  Egyptian  lands, 
Which  were  not,  but  for  thee,  — 

Art  thou  the  keeper  of  that  eldest  lore, 

Written  ere  yet  thy  hieroglyphs  began, 
When  dawned  upon  thy  fresh,  untrampled  shore 
The  earliest  life  of  Man  ? 

Thou  guardest  temple  and  vast  pyramid, 

Where  the  gray  Past  records  its  ancient  speech ; 
But  in  thine  unrevealing  breast  lies  hid 
What  they  refuse  to  teach. 


112 


All  other  streams  with  human  joys  and  fears 
Run  blended,  o'er  the  plains  of  History : 
Thou  tak'st  no  note  of  Man  ;  a  thousand  years 
Are  as  a  day  to  thee.  " 

Thou,  from  thine  unknown  sources  to  the  sea, 

Art  of  the  Human  Race  a  type  sublime ; 
And  Ocean  waits  thee,  as  Eternity 

Waits  for  the  stream  of  Time. 

What  were  to  thee  the  Osirian  festivals  ? 

Or  Memnon's  music  on  the  Theban  plain  ? 
The  carnage,  when  Cambyses  made  thy  halls 
Ruddy  with  royal  slain  ? 

Even  then  thou  wast  a  God,  and  shrines  were  built 

For  worship  of  thine  own  majestic  flood  ; 
For  thee  the  incense  burned  —  for  thee  was  spilt 
The  sacrificial  blood. 


And  past  the  bannered  pylons  that  arose 

Above  thy  palms,  the  pageantry  and  state, 
Thy  current  flowed,  calmly  as  now  it  flows, 
Unchangeable  as  Fate. 


113 


Thou  givest  blessing  as  a  God  mignt  give, 

Whose  being  is  his  bounty  :  from  the  slime 
Shaken  from  off  thy  skirts  the  nations  live, 
Through  all  the  years  of  Time. 

In  thy  solemnity,  thine  awful  calm, 

Thy  grand  indifference  of  Destiny, 
My  soul  forgets  its  pain,  and  drinks  the  balm 
Which  thou  dost  proffer  me. 

Thy  godship  is  unquestioned  still :  I  bring 

No  doubtful  worship  to  thy  shrine  supreme  ; 
But  thus  my  homage  as  a  chaplet  fling, 
To  float  upon  thy  stream ! 
8 


114 


HASSAN  TO  HIS   MARE. 

Come,  my  beauty  !  come,  my  desert  darling  ! 

On  my  shoulder  lay  thy  glossy  head  ! 
Fear  not,  though  the  barley-sack  be  empty, 

Here's  the  half  of  Hassan's  scanty  bread. 

Thou  shalt  have  thy  share  of  dates,  my  beauty ! 

And  thou  know'st  my  water-skin  is  free  : 
Drink  and  welcome,  for  the  wells  are  distant, 

And  my  strength  and  safety  lie  in  thee. 

Bend  thy  forehead  now,  to  take  my  kisses  ! 

Lift  in  love  thy  dark  and  splendid  eye : 
Thou  art  glad  when  Hassan  mounts  the  saddle  — 

Thou  art  proud  he  owns  thee  :  so  am  I. 


115 


Let  the  Sultan  bring  his  boasted  horses, 
Prancing  with  their  diamond-studded  reins  ; 

They,  my  darling,  shall  not  match  thy  fleetness 
When  they  course  with  thee  the  desert-plains ! 

Let  the  Sultan  bring  his  famous  horses, 
Let  him  bring  his  golden  swords  to  me  — 

Bring  his  slaves,  his  eunuchs,  and  his  harem  ; 
He  would  offer  them  in  vain  for  thee. 

We  have  seen  Damascus,  O  my  beauty  ! 

And  the  splendor  of  the  Pashas  there  : 
What's  their  pomp  and  riches  ?     Why,  I  would  not 

Take  them  for  a  handful  of  thy  hair ! 

Khaled  sings  the  praises  of  his  mistress, 
And,  because  I've  none,  he  pities  me : 

What  care  I  if  he  should  have  a  thousand, 
Fairer  than  the  morning  ?     I  have  thee. 

He  will  find  his  passion  growing  cooler 
Should  her  glance  on  other  suitors  fall ; 

Thou  wilt  ne'er,  my  mistress  and  my  darling, 
Fail  to  answer  at  thy  master's  call. 


116 

By  and  by  some  snow-white  Nedjid  stallion 
Shall  to  thee  his  spring-time  ardor  bring  ; 

And  a  foal,  the  fairest  of  the  Desert, 

To  thy  milky  dugs  shall  crouch  and  cling. 

Then,  when  Khaled  shows  to  me  his  children, 
I  shall  laugh,  and  bid  him  look  at  thine  ; 

Thou  wilt  neigh,  and  lovingly  caress  me, 
With  thy  glossy  neck  laid  close  to  mine. 


117 


CHARMIAN. 


0  Daughter  of  the  Sun  ! 

Who  gave  the  keys  of  passion  unto  thee  ? 
Who  taught  the  powerful  sorcery 
Wherein  my  soul,  too  willing  to  be  won, 
Still  feebly  struggles  to  be  free, 
But  more  than  half  undone  ? 
Within  the  mirror  of  thine  eyes, 
Full  of  the  sleep  of  warm  Egyptian  skies,  — 
The  sleep  of  lightning,  bound  in  airy  spell, 
And  deadlier,  because  invisible,  — 

1  see  the  reflex  of  a  feeling 
Which  was  not,  till  I  looked  on  thee : 
A  power,  involved  in  mystery, 

That  shrinks,  affrighted,  from  its  own  revealing. 


118 


Thou  sitt'st  in  stately  indolence, 

Too  calm  to  feel  a  breath  of  passion  start 

The  listless  fibres  of  thy  sense, 

The  fiery  slumber  of  thy  heart. 

Thine  eyes  are  wells  of  darkness,  by  the  veil 

Of  languid  lids  half-sealed  :  the  pale 

And  bloodless  olive  of  thy  face, 

And  the  full,  silent  lips  that  wear 

A  ripe  serenity  of  grace, 

Are  dark  beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  hair. 

Not  from  the  brow  of  templed  Athor  beams 

Such  tropic  warmth  along  the  path  of  dreams ; 

Not  from  the  lips  of  horned  Isis  flows 

Such  sweetness  of  repose  ! 

For  thou  art  Passion's  self,  a  goddess  too, 

And  aught  but  worship  never  knew  ; 

And  thus  thy  glances,  calm  and  sure, 

Look  for  accustomed  homage,  and  betray 

No  effort  to  assert  thy  sway  : 

Thou  deem'st  my  fealty  secure. 


119 


in. 


0  Sorceress  !  those  looks  unseal 
The  undisturbed  mysteries  that  press 
Too  deep  in  nature  for  the  heart  to  feel 
Their  terror  and  their  loveliness. 
Thine  eyes  are  torches  that  illume 

On  secret  shrines  their  unforeboded  fires, 
And  fill  the  vaults  of  silence  and  of  gloom 
With  the  unresting  life  of  new  desires. 

1  follow  where  their  arrowy  ray 
Pierces  the  veil  I  would  not  tear  away, 
And  with  a  dread,  delicious  awe  behold 
Another  gate  of  lire  unfold, 

Like  the  rapt  neophyte  who  sees 

Some  march  of  grand  Osirian  mysteries. 

The  startled  chambers  I  explore, 

And  every  entrance  open  lies, 

Forced  by  the  magic  thrill  that  runs  before 

Thy  slowly-lifted  eyes. 

I  tremble  to  the  centre  of  my  being 

Thus  to  confess  the  spirit's  poise  o'erthrown, 

And  all  its  guiding  virtues  blown 

Like  leaves  before  the  whirlwind's  fury  fleeing. 


120 


IV. 


But  see  !  one  memory  rises  in  my  soul, 

And,  beaming  steadily  and  clear, 

Scatters  the  lurid  thunder-clouds  that  roll 

Through  Passion's  sultry  atmosphere. 

An  alchemy  more  potent  borrow 

For  thy  dark  eyes,  enticing  Sorceress  ! 

For  on  the  casket  of  a  sacred  Sorrow 

Their  shafts  fall  powerless. 

Nay,  frown  not,  Athor,  from  thy  mystic  shrine 

Strong  Goddess  of  Desire,  I  will  not  be 

One  of  the  myriad  slaves  thou  callest  thine, 

To  cast  my  manhood's  crown  of  royalty 

Before  thy  dangerous  beauty  :  I  am  free  ! 


121 


THE  SHEKH. 


FROM  THE  ARABIC. 


Not  a  single 

Star  is  twinkling 
Through  the  wilderness  of  cloud  : 

On  the  mountain, 

In  the  darkness, 
Stands  the  Shekh,  and  prays  aloud 

God,  who  kindlest  aspiration, 
Kindlest  hope  the  heart  within,  - 

God,  who  promisest  Thy  mercy, 
Wiping  out  the  debt  of  sin,  — 

God,  protect  me,  in  the  darkness, 
When  the  awful  thunders  roll : 

Evil  walks  the  world  unsleeping, 
Evil  sleeps  within  my  soul. 


122 

Keep  my  mind  from  every  impulse 
Which  from  Thee  may  turn  aside  ; 

Keep  my  heart  from  every  passion 
By  Thy  breath  unsanctified. 

God,  preserve  me  from  a  spirit 

Which  Thy  knowledge  cannot  claim  ; 

From  a  knee  that  bendeth  never 
In  the  worship  of  thy  name  ; 

From  a  heart  whose  every  feeling 
Is  not  wholly  vowed  to  Thee ; 

From  an  eye  that,  through  its  weeping, 
Thy  compassion  cannot  see  ; 

From  a  prayer  that  goes  not  upward, 
In  the  darkness  and  the  fear, 

From  the  soul's  impassioned  centre, 
Seeking  access  at  Thy  ear  ! 

When  the  might  of  Evil  threatens, 
Throw  Thy  shelter  over  me  : 

Let  my  spirit  feel  Thy  presence, 
And  my  days  be  full  of  Thee ! 


123 


SMYRNA. 

The  "  Ornament  of  Asia  "  and  the  "  Crown 
Of  fair  Ionia."     Yea ;  but  Asia  stands 
No  more  an  empress,  and  Ionia's  hands 
Have  lost  their  sceptre.     Thou,  majestic  town, 
Art  as  a  diamond  on  a  faded  robe  : 
The  freshness  of  thy  beauty  scatters  yet 
The  radiance  of  that  sun  of  Empire  set, 
Whose  disc  sublime  illumed  the  ancient  globe. 
Thou  sitt'st  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea ; 
The  sea  and  mountains  flatter  thine  array, 
And  fill  thy  courts  with  Grandeur,  not  Decay  ; 
And  Power,  not  Death,  proclaims  thy  cypress  tree. 
Through  thee,  the  sovereign  symbols  Nature  lent 
Her  rise,  make  Asia's  fall  magnificent. 


124 


TO  A  PERSIAN  BOY, 

IN   THE   BAZAAR  AT  SMYRNA. 

The  gorgeous  blossoms  of  that  magic  tree 
Beneath  whose  shade  I  sat  a  thousand  nights, 
Breathed  from  their  opening  petals  all  delights 
Embalmed  in  spice  of  Orient  Poesy, 
When  first,  young  Persian,  I  beheld  thine  eyes, 
And  felt  the  wonder  of  thy  beauty  grow 
Within  my  brain,  as  some  fair  planet's  glow 
Deepens,  and  fills  the  summer  evening  skies. 
From  under  thy  dark  lashes  shone  on  me 
The  rich,  voluptuous  soul  of  Eastern  land, 
Impassioned,  tender,  calm,  serenely  sad  — 
Such  as  immortal  Hafiz  felt  when  he 
Sang  by  the  fountain-streams  of  Rocnabad, 
Or  in  the  bowers  of  blissful  Samarcand. 


125 


THE   GOBLET. 


When  Life  his  lusty  course  began, 
And  first  I  felt  myself  a  man, 
And  Passion's  unforeboded  glow  — 
The  thirst  to  feel,  the  will  to  know  — 
Gave  courage,  vigor,  fervor,  truth, 
The  glory  of  the  heart  of  Youth, 
And  each  awaking  pulse  was  fleet 
A  livelier  march  of  joy  to  beat, 
Presaging  in  its  budding  hour 
The  ripening  of  the  human  flower, 
There  came,  on  some  divine  intent, 
One  whom  the  Lord  of  Life  had  sent, 
And  from  his  lips  of  wisdom  fell 
This  fair  and  wondrous  oracle  :  — 


126 


ii. 


Life's  arching  temple  holds  for  thee 
Solution  quick,  and  radiant  key- 
To  many  an  early  mystery  ; 
And  thou  art  eager  to  pursue,     - 
Through  many  a  dimly-lighted  clew, 
The  hopes  that  turn  thy  blood  to  fire, 
The  phantoms  of  thy  young  desire  : 
Yet  not  to  reckless  haste  is  poured 
The  nectar  of  the  generous  lord, 
Nor  mirth  nor  giddy  riot  jar 
The  penetralia,  high  and  far ; 
But  steady  hope,  and  passion  pure, 
And  manly  truth,  the  crown  secure. 


in. 

Within  that  temple's  secret  heart, 
In  mystic  silence  shrined  apart, 
There  is  a  goblet,  on  whose  brim 
All  raptures  of  Creation  swim. 
No  light  that  ever  beamed  in  wine 
Can  match  the  glory  of  its  shine, 


127 

Or  lure  with  such  a  mighty  art 
The  tidal  flow  of  every  heart. 
But  in  its  warm,  bewildering  blaze, 
An  ever-shifting  magic  plays, 
And  few  who  round  the  altar  throng 
Shall  find  the  sweets  for  which  they  long. 
Who,  unto  brutish  life  akin, 
Comes  to  the  goblet  dark  with  sin, 
And  with  a  coarse  hand  grasps,  for  him 
The  splendor  of  the  gold  grows  dim, 
The  gems  are  dirt,  the  liquor's  flame 
A  maddening  beverage  of  shame, 
And  into  caverns  shut  from  day 
The  hot  inebriate  reels  away. 


IV. 


For  each  shall  give  the  draught  he  drains 
Its  nectar  pure,  or  poison  stains ; 
From  out  his  heart  the  flavor  flows 
That  gives  him  fury,  or  repose  : 
And  some  shall  drink  a  tasteless  wave, 
And  some  increase  the  thirst  they  lave ; 
And  others  loathe  as  soon  as  taste, 
And  others  pour  the  tide  to  waste ; 


128 


And  some  evoke  from  out  its  deeps 
A  torturing  fiend  that  never  sleeps  — 
For  vain  all  arts  to  exorcise 
From  the  seared  heart  its  haunting  eyes. 


v. 


But  he  who  burns  with  pure  desire, 

With  chastened  love  and  sacred  fire, 

With  soul  and  being  all  a-glow 

Life's  holiest  mystery  to  know, 

Shall  see  the  goblet  flash  and  gleam 

As  in  the  glory  of  a  dream  ; 

And  from  its  starry  lip  shall  drink 

A  bliss  to  lift  him  on  the  brink 

Of  mighty  rapture,  joy  intense, 

That  far  outlives  its  subsidence. 

The  draught  shall  strike  Life's  narrow  goal, 

And  make  an  outlet  for  his  soul, 

That  down  the  ages,  broad  and  far, 

Shall  brighten  like  a  rising  star. 

In  other  forms  his  pulse  shall  beat, 

His  spirit  walk  in  other  feet, 


129 

And  every  generous  hope  and  aim 
That  spurred  him  on  to  honest  fame, 
To  other  hearts  give  warmth  and  grace, 
And  keep  on  earth  his  honored  place, 
Become  immortal  in  his  race. 
9 


130 


THE  ARAB  TO  THE  PALM. 

Next  to  thee,  O  fair  gazelle, 

O  Beddowee  girl,  beloved  so  well ; 

Next  to  the  fearless  Nedjidee, 

Whose  fleetness  shall  bear  me  again  to  thee ; 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Palm, 

With  his  leaves  of  beauty,  his  fruit  of  balm  ; 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Tree 
Whose  fluttering  shadow  wraps  us  three 
With  love,  and  silence,  and  mystery  ! 

Our  tribe  is  many,  our  poets  vie 

With  any  under  the  Arab  sky  ; 

Yet  none  can  sing  of  the  Palm  but  I. 


131 

The  marble  minarets  that  begem 

Cairo's  citadel-diadem 

Are  not  so  light  as  his  slender  stem. 

He  lifts  his  leaves  in  the  sunbeam's  glance 
As  the  Almehs  lift  their  arms  in  dance  — 

A  slumberous  motion,  a  passionate  sign, 
That  works  in  the  cells  of  the  blood  like  wine. 

Full  of  passion  and  sorrow  is  he, 
Dreaming  where  the  beloved  may  be. 

And  when  the  warm  south-winds  arise, 
He  breathes  his  longing  in  fervid  sighs  — 

Quickening  odors,  kisses  of  balm, 
That  drop  in  the  lap  of  his  chosen  palm. 

The  sun  may  flame  and  the  sands  may  stir, 
But  the  breath  of  his  passion  reaches  her. 

O  Tree  of  Love,  by  that  love  of  thine, 
Teach  me  how  I  shall  soften  mine  ! 

Give  me  the  secret  of  the  sun, 
Whereby  the  wooed  is  ever  won ! 


132 

If  I  were  a  King,  O  stately  Tree, 

A  likeness,  glorious  as  might  be, 

In  the  court  of  my  palace  I'd  build  for  thee ! 

With  a  shaft  of  silver,  burnished  bright, 
And  leaves  of  beryl  and  malachite ; 

With  spikes  of  golden  bloom  a-blaze, 
And  fruits  of  topaz  and  chrysoprase  : 

And  there  the  poets,  in  thy  praise, 

Should  night  and  morning  frame  new  lays  — 

New  measures  sung  to  tunes  divine  ; 
But  none,  O  Palm,  should  equal  mine  ! 


133 


AURUM  POTABILE. 


Brother  Bards  of  every  region  — 
Brother  Bards,  (your  name  is  Legion !) 
Were  you  with  me  while  the  twilight 
Darkens  up  my  pine-tree  skylight  — 
Were  you  gathered,  representing 

Every  land  beneath  the  sun, 
O,  what  songs  would  be  indited, 
Ere  the  earliest  star  is  lighted, 
To  the  praise  of  vino  d'oro, 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon ! 


ii. 


Yes ;  while  all  alone  I  quaff  its 
Lucid  gold,  and  brightly  laugh  its 


134 


Topaz  waves  and  amber  bubbles, 
Still  the  thought  my  pleasure  troubles, 

That  I  quaff  it  all  alone. 
Oh  for  Hafiz  —  glorious  Persian  ! 
Keats,  with  buoyant,  gay  diversion 
Mocking  Schiller's  grave  immersion  ; 

Oh  for  wreathed  Anacreon  ! 
Yet  enough  to  have  the  living  — 
They,*  the  few,  the  rapture-giving  ! 
(Blessed  more  than  in  receiving,) 
Fate,  that  frowns  when  laurels  wreathe  them, 
Once  the  solace  might  bequeath  them, 
Once  to  taste  of  vino  d'oro, 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon  ! 


in. 

Lebanon,  thou  mount  of  story, 
Well  we  know  thy  sturdy  glory, 

Since  the  days  of  Solomon  ; 
Well  we  know  the  Five  old  Cedars, 
Scarred  by  ages  —  silent  pleaders, 
Preaching,  in  their  gray  sedateness, 
Of  thy  forest's  fallen  greatness, 


135 

Of  the  vessels  of  the  Tyrian, 
And  the  palaces  Assyrian, 
And  the  temple  on  Morian 

To  the  High  and  Holy  One ! 
Know  the  wealth  of  thy  appointment- 
Myrrh  and  aloes,  gum  and  ointment ; 
But  we  knew  not,  till  we  clomb  thee, 
Of  the  nectar  dropping  from  thee  — 
Of  the  pure,  pellucid  Ophir 
In  the  cups  of  vino  d'oro, 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon ! 


IV. 


We  have  drunk,  and  we  have  eaten, 
Where  Egyptian  sheaves  are  beaten  ; 
Tasted  Judah's  milk  and  honey 
On  his  mountains,  bare  and  sunny  ; 
Drained  ambrosial  bowls,  that  ask  us 
Never  more  to  leave  Damascus  ; 
And  have  sung  a  vintage  paean 
To  the  grapes  of  isles  iEgean, 
And  the  flasks  of  Orvieto, 

Ripened  in  the  Roman  sun  : 


136 

But  the  liquor  here  surpasses 
All  that  beams  in  earthly  glasses. 
'Tis  of  this  that  Paracelsus 
(His  elixir  vitse)  tells  us, 
That  to  happier  shores  can  float  us 
Than  Lethean  stems  of  lotus, 
And  the  vigor  of  the  morning 

Straight  restores  when  day  is  done. 
Then,  before  the  sunset  waneth, 
While  the  rosy  tide,  that  staineth 
Earth,  and  sky,  and  sea,  remaineth, 
We  will  take  the  fortune  proffered  — 
Ne'er  again  to  be  reoffered  — 
We  will  drink  of  vino  d'oro, 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon  ! 
Vino  d'oro !  vino  d'oro  !  — 

Golden  blood  of  Lebanon  ! 


137 


ON  THE  SEA. 

The  pathway  of  the  sinking  moon 

Fades  from  the  silent  bay  ; 
The  mountain-isles  loom  large  and  faint, 

Folded  in  shadows  gray, 
And  the  lights  of  land  are  setting  stars 

That  soon  will  pass  away. 

O  boatman,  cease  thy  mellow  song ! 

O  minstrel,  drop  thy  lyre ! 
Let  us  hear  the  voice  of  the  midnight  sea, 

Let  us  speak  as  the  waves  inspire, 
While  the  plashy  dip  of  the  languid  oar 

Is  a  furrow  of  silver  fire. 

Day  cannot  make  thee  half  so  fair, 
Nor  the  stars  of  eve  so  dear : 


138 


The  arms  that  clasp  and  the  breast  that  keeps, 

They  tell  me  thou  art  near, 
And  the  perfect  beauty  of  thy  face 

In  thy  murmured  words  I  hear. 

The  lights  of  land  have  dropped  below 
The  vast  and  glimmering  sea ; 

The  world  we  leave  is  a  tale  that  is  told, — 
A  fable,  that  cannot  be. 

There  is  no  life  in  the  sphery  dark 
But  the  love  in  thee  and  me ! 


139 


TYRE. 


The  wild  and  windy  morning  is  lit  with  lurid  fire ; 

The  thundering  surf  of  ocean  beats  on  the  rocks  of 
Tyre  — 

Beats  on  the  fallen  columns  and  round  the  headland 
roars, 

And  hurls  its  foamy  volume  along  the  hollow  shores, 

And  calls  with  hungry  clamor,  that  speaks  its  long  de- 
sire : 

"  Where  are  the  ships  of  Tarshish,  the  mighty  ships  of 
Tyre  ?  " 


ii. 


Within  her  cunning  harbor,  choked  with  invading  sand, 
No  galleys  bring  their  freightage,  the  spoils  of  every  land, 


140 


And  like  a  prostrate  forest,  when  autumn  gales  have 

blown, 
Her  colonnades  of  granite  lie  shattered  and  o'erthrown  ; 
And  from  the  reef  the  pharos  no  longer  flings  its  fire 
To  beacon  home  from  Tarshish  the  lordly  ships  of  Tyre. 


in. 


Where   is   thy   rod   of  empire,   once   mighty   on   the 

waves  — 
Thou  that  thyself  exalted,  till  Kings  became  thy  slaves? 
Thou   that   didst   speak   to   nations,  and  saw  thy  will 

obeyed  — 
Whose   favor   made   them  joyful,  whose    anger   sore 

afraid  — 
Who  laid'st  thy  deep  foundations,  and    thought  them 

strong  and  sure, 
And  boasted  midst  the  waters :  shall  I  not  aye  endure  ? 


IV. 


Where  is  the  wealth  of  ages  that  heaped  thy  princely 

mart  ? 
The  pomp  of  purple  trappings ;  the  gems  of  Syrian  art ; 


141 


The  silken  goats  of  Kedar ;  Sabaea's  spicy  store  ; 
The  tributes  of  the   islands  thy  squadrons  homeward 

bore, 
When  in  thy  gates  triumphant  they  entered  from  the 

sea 
With  sound  of  horn  and  sackbut,  of  harp  and  psaltery  ? 


v. 


Howl,  howl,  ye  ships  of  Tarshish !   the  glory  is  laid 

waste : 
There  is  no  habitation  ;  the  mansions  are  defaced. 
No  mariners  of  Sidon  unfurl  your  mighty  sails ; 
No  workmen  fell   the  fir-trees  that  grow  in   Shenir's 

vales, 
And  Bashan's  oaks  that  boasted  a  thousand  years  of 

sun, 
Or  hew  the  masts  of  cedar  on  frosty  Lebanon. 


VI. 


Rise,  thou   forgotten   harlot!    take   up    thy   harp   and 

sing: 
Call  the  rebellious  islands  to  own  their  ancient  king : 


142 


Bare  to  the  spray  thy  bosom,  and  with  thy  hair  un- 
bound, 

Sit  on  the  piles  of  ruin,  thou  throneless  and  discrowned ! 

There  mix  thy  voice  of  wailing  with  the  thunders  of  the 
sea, 

And  sing  thy  songs  of  sorrow,  that  thou  remembered 
be! 


VII. 


Though  silent  and  forgotten,  yet  Nature  still  laments 
The  pomp  and  power  departed,  the  lost  magnificence  : 
The  hills  were  proud  to  see  thee,  and  they  are  sadder 

now; 
The  sea  was  proud  to  bear  thee,  and  wears  a  troubled 

brow, 
And  evermore  the  surges  chant  forth  their  vain  desire  : 
"  Where  are  the  ships  of  Tarshish,  the  mighty  ships  of 

Tyre  ?  " 


143 


AN  ANSWER. 

You  call  me  cold  :  you  wonder  why 
The  marble  of  a  mien  like  mine 

Gives  fiery  sparks  of  Poesy, 

Or  softens  at  Love's  touch  divine. 

Go,  look  on  Nature,  you  will  find 
It  is  the  rock  that  feels  the  sun  : 

But  you  are  blind  —  and  to  the  blind 
The  touch  of  ice  and  fire  is  one. 


144 


REQUIEM  IN  THE   SOUTH. 

Thou  hast  no  charm  to  turn  the  edge  of  Sorrow, 

Bird  of  the  mournful  strain  ! 
From  thee  doth  Love  a  love  more  fervent  borrow, 

But  Pain  a  sharper  pain. 

Why  sing  so  loud,  the  passion-dream  recalling, 

That  ceased  in  sudden  gloom  ? 
Why  sing  from  boughs,  whose  ripened  bloom  is  falling 

Upon  a  maiden's  tomb  ? 

There  needs  no  prompter  for  the  love,  belonging 

To  that  sweet  memory ; 
The  heart's  wild  outcry,  not  its  perished  longing, 

Demands  a  voice  from  thee. 


145 


The  blackness  of  a  grief  that  will  not  soften 
Clings  round  me  through  the  day, 

And  to  the  grave  that  hides  her,  wandering  often, 
I  weep  the  nights  away. 

In  this  fierce  sorrow  there  is  no  partaker  — 

It  seeks  no  healing  balm  : 
Yet,  though  my  lamentations  cannot  wake  her, 

The  exhausted  heart  grows  calm. 

Here,  filled  with  sorrows  of  its  own  creation, 
The  night-wind  swells  and  dies ; 

And,  drooping  in  their  dumb  commiseration, 
The  palms  around  me  rise. 

Here,  from  the  fury  of  my  passion  fleeing, 

The  barriers  slowly  fret, 
Which  dam  the  restless  river  of  my  being 

To  stagnate  in  regret. 

And  I  may  conquer  this  overmastering  anguish, 

And  find  my  peace  again ; 
The  manly  heart  must  sometime  cease  to  languish, 

Ruled  by  the  manly  brain. 
10 


146 

And  what  is  wax  shall  be  as  steel  within  me, 

And  be  my  fortune  then  : 
All  soft  indulgence  powerless  to  win  me 

From  the  stern  ways  of  men. 

And  let  them  say  :  u  His  heart  is  cold  and  cruel, 
He  knows  not  love's  desire  :  " 

I  gave  the  essence  of  my  life  as  fuel 
To  one  extinguished  fire. 


147 


GULISTAN. 


AN  ARABIC  METRE. 


Where  is  Gulistan,  the  Land  of  Roses  ? 

Not  on  hills  where  Northern  winters 
Break  their  spears  in  icy  splinters, 

And  in  shrouded  snow  the  world  reposes  ; 
But  amid  the  glow  and  splendor 
Which  the  Orient  summers  lend  her, 

Blue  the  heaven  above  her  beauty  closes : 

There  is  Gulistan,  the  Land  of  Roses. 

Northward  stand  the  Persian  mountains  ; 
Southward  spring  the  silver  fountains 

Which  to  Hafiz  taught  his  sweetest  measures, 
Clearly  ringing  to  the  singing 
Which  the  nightingales  delight  in, 
When  the  Spring,  from  Oman  winging 

Unto  Shiraz,  showers  her  fragrant  treasures 
On  the  land,  till  valleys  brighten, 


148 

Mountains  lighten  with  returning 
Fires  of  scarlet  poppy  burning, 
And  the  stream  meanders 
Through  its  roseate  oleanders, 
And  Love's  golden  gate,  unfolden, 
Opens  on  a  universe  of  pleasures. 

There  the  sunshine  blazes  over 
Meadows  gemmed  with  ruby  clover ; 
There  the  rose's  heart  uncloses, 

Prodigal  with  hoarded  stores  of  sweetness, 
And  the  lily's  cup  so  still  is 
Where  the  river's  waters  quiver, 
That  no  wandering  air  can  spill  his 

Honeyed  balm,  or  blight  his  beauty's  fleetness. 
Skies  are  fairest,  days  are  rarest  — 
Thou,  O  Earth  !  a  glory  wearest 
From  the  ecstasy  thou  bearest, 

Once  to  feel  the  Summer's  full  completeness. 

Twilight  glances,  moonlit  dances, 
Song  by  starlight,  there  entrances 
Youthful  hearts  with  fervid  fancies, 

And  the  blushing  rose  of  Love  uncloses  : 

Love  that,  lapped  in  summer  joyance, 
Far  from  every  rude  annoyance, 

Calmly  on  the  answering  love  reposes ; 


149 


And  in  song,  in  music  only 
Speaks  the  longing,  vague  and  lonely, 
Which  to  pain  is  there  the  nearest, 
Yet  of  joys  the  sweetest,  dearest, 
As  a  cloud  when  skies  are  clearest 
On  its  folds  intenser  light  discloses  : 
This  is  Gulistan,  the  Land  of  Roses. 


150 


JERUSALEM. 

Fair  shines  the  moon,  Jerusalem, 

Upon  the  hills  that  wore 
Thy  glory  once,  their  diadem 

Ere  Judah's  reign  was  o'er : 
The  stars  on  hallowed  Olivet 

And  over  Zion  burn, 
But  when  shall  rise  thy  splendor  set  ? 

Thy  majesty  return  ? 

The  peaceful  shades  that  wrap  thee  now 

Thy  desolation  hide ; 
The  moonlit  beauty  of  thy  brow 

Restores  thine  ancient  pride  ; 
Yet  there,  where  Rome  thy  Temple  rent, 

The  dews  of  midnight  wet 
The  marble  dome  of  Omar's  tent, 

And  Aksa's  minaret. 


151 

Thy  strength,  Jerusalem,  is  o'er, 

And  broken  are  thy  walls  ; 
The  harp  of  Israel  sounds  no  more 

In  thy  deserted  halls  : 
But  where  thy  Kings  and  Prophets  trod, 

Triumphant  over  Death 
Behold  the  living  Soul  of  God  — 

The  Christ  of  Nazareth  ! 

The  halo  of  his  presence  fills 

Thy  courts,  thy  ways  of  men ; 
His  footsteps  on  thy  holy  hills 

Are  beautiful  as  then  ; 
The  prayer,  whose  bloody  sweat  betrayed 

His  human  agony, 
Still  haunts  the  awful  olive  shade 

Of  old  Gethsemane. 

Woe  unto  thee,  Jerusalem  ! 

Slayer  of  Prophets,  thou, 
That  in  thy  fury  stonest  them 

God  sent,  and  sends  thee  now :  — 
Where  thou,  O  Christ !  with  anguish  spent, 

Forgave  thy  foes,  and  died, 
Thy  garments  yet  are  daily  rent  — 

Thy  soul  is  crucified  ! 


152 

They  darken  with  the  Christian  name 

The  light  that  from  thee  beamed, 
And  by  the  hatred  they  proclaim 

Thy  spirit  is  blasphemed  ; 
Unto  thine  ear  the  prayers  they  send 

Were  fit  for  Belial's  reign, 
And  Moslem  cimeters  defend 

The  temple  they  profane. 

Who  shall  rebuild  Jerusalem  ?  — 

Her  scattered  children  bring 
From  Earth's  far  ends,  and  gather  them 

Beneath  her  sheltering  wing  ? 
For  Judah's  sceptre  broken  lies, 

And  from  his  kingly  stem 
No  new  Messiah  shall  arise 

For  lost  Jerusalem ! 

But  let  the  wild'  ass  on  her  hills 

Its  foal  unfrighted  lead, 
And  by  the  source  of  Kedron's  rills 

The  desert  adder  breed  : 
For  where  the  love  of  Christ  has  made 

Its  mansion  in  the  heart, 
He  builds  in  pomp  that  will  not  fade 

Her  heavenly  counterpart. 


153 

How  long,  O  Christ,  shall  men  obscure 

Thy  holy  charity  — 
How  long  the  godless  rites  endure, 

Which  they  bestow  on  thee  ? 
Thou,  in  whose  soul  of  tenderness 

The  Father's  mercy  shone, 
Who  came,  the  sons  of  men  to  bless 

By  Truth  and  Love  alone. 

The  suns  of  eighteen  hundred  years 

Have  seen  thy  reign  expand, 
And  Morning,  on  her  pathway,  hears 

Thy  name  in  every  land  ; 
But  where  thy  sacred  steps  were  sent 

The  Father's  will  to  bide, 
Thy  garments  yet  are  daily  rent  — 

Thy  soul  is  crucified  ! 


154 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  A  DREAM. 

There  is  a  cloud  below  the  mountain  peak, 

Moored  in  the  pauses  of  the  uncertain  air. 

Its  fleecy  folds  piled  idly,  self- involved, 

Fashion  the  semblance  of  a  floating  throne, 

Torn,  in  the  clash  of  airy  anarchy, 

From  the  halls  of  Thunder  ;  haply,  once  surcharged 

With  elemental  fire  and  threatening  death  — 

Fit  seat  for  the  Destroying  Gods  !  —  but  now 

Of  ivory  all  compact,  and  touched  with  gold 

And  opal  radiance  on  its  sunny  hem, 

As  if  a  peaceful  Angel  steered  it  down 

From  empyreal  heights,  with  folded  wing 

Slow  sinking  through  the  yielding  deeps.     A  throne 

It  seems,  where  disembodied  Thought  may  sit, 

Unquestioned  take  the  sceptre  of  the  world, 

And,  exercising  power  anticipant, 

Go  forth  to  try  his  lordship. 


155 


I  accept 
The  moment's  offer,  mount  the  seat  sublime, 
And  on  the  winds  whose  wings  I  feel  no  more, 
Because  I  move  before  them,  boldly  try 
The  blue  abyss  whose  measure  no  man  knows. 
Straight  down  the  mountain  sinks  ;  the  mountain  pines 
Send  a  last  drowning  murmur  faintly  up 
The  ingulfing  air,  then  stand  in  moveless  calm, 
Like  coral  forests  rooted  on  the  floors 
Of  Ocean.     Plummeted  with  all  her  sins, 
The  Earth,  down-sliding  through  the  limpid  sea, 
Bears  far  below,  the  noises  of  her  broils —   - 
The  greeds,  the  struggles,  the  devouring  cares, 
The  endless  agitations  —  leaving  free 
To  the  enfranchised  spirit  the  still  fields 
Of  amplest  ether.     Speed,  my  winged  throne  ! 
Wherever  Thought  may  pilot,  stretch  thy  flight, 
Higher  than  eagle  dares,  above  the  peaks 
Of  Himalayan  snow,  o'er  seas  and  sands, 
Through  tropic  green,  or  where  the  eternal  ice 
Stiffens  around  the  forehead  of  the  Pole  ! 
The  World  is  mine  ;  the  secrets  of  her  heart 
Lie  at  my  feet ;  she  cannot  shut  them  out : 
And  as  she  spins  on  her  appointed  round 
From  daylight  into  dark,  from  dark  to  dawn, 
The  mysteries  of  ages,  problems  which 


156 


A  hundred  centuries  have  left  unsolved, 

Give  one  by  one  their  answers.     Yonder  burst 

From  the  hot  heart  of  Africa  the  springs 

Of  waters  that  have  rocked  Egyptian  gods, 

When  the  great  stream  that  leaped  in  thunder  down 

From  Primnis  and  Syene's  barrier,  bore 

The  chaplets  and  the  consecrated  oil 

To  his  own  godship  poured  :  —  Beyond  those  hills, 

Whose  tops  against  the  Indian  Caucasus 

Uplift  their  snowy  helms,  behold  the  vast 

Wind-driven  platforms,  whence  the  earliest  Men 

Went  with  the  streams  to  greener  pasture-fields, 

And  bore  —  theirvonly  heritage  —  God's  name, 

The  altars  of  his  worship,  and  the  truths 

Whose  rude  foundations  underlie  the  piles 

Of  states  and  sovereignties,  upholding  firm 

The  masonry  of  Time  :  and  whatsoe'er 

Of  summer  beauty  in  the  virgin  isles, 

Of  lifeless  grandeur  in  the  emerald  crags 

Of  undissolving  ice,  was  never  yet 

By  bold  Adventure  wrested  from  the  keep 

Of  savage  Nature,  gives  its  secret  up, 

Helpless  beneath  the  master-gaze  of  Thought, 

As  that  of  God. 

Sweep  downward,  streams  of  air  ! 
And  thou,  my  cloudy  chariot,  drop  thy  shade 


157 


To  roll,  like  dust,  behind  thy  silent  wheels, 

And  draw  round  Earth  the  triumph  of  our  march ! 

See  where,  from  zone  to  zone,  the  shadow  moves  - 

A  spot  upon  the  Desert's  golden  glare  — 

A  deeper  blue  on  the  far-stretching  plains 

Of  Ocean's  foamy  azure  —  pausing  now 

To  cloak  with  purple  gloom  the  shoulders  bare 

Of  mighty  mountains,  or  ingulfed  and  lost 

Deep  in  their  folded  chasms,  or  sailing  slow 

On  wide  savannas,  the  elysian  home 

Of  flowery  life,  or  quenching  splendors  vain 

That  dance  upon  the  gilded  domes  of  men, 

And  blind  their  eyes  to  the  great  light  of  Heaven. 

As  in  this  rarer  ether  I  surmount 

Life's  numberless  obstructions,  and  my  gaze 

Takes  in  the  whole  expanded  round  of  Earth, 

So,  lifted  o'er  the  narrow  walks  of  Time, 

The  weary  years  have  dwindled  to  a  point, 

And  all  their  lessons  compassed  in  the  sphere 

Of  one  sole  thought,  as  in  the  dew-drop  lies 

The  large  orb  of  the  morning  sun.     The  years  — 

The  ages,  that  from  their  accretion  grow  — 

The  cyclic  eras  —  shrink,  and  all  the  Past 

Lies  round  and  clear  beneath  me,  swallowing  up 

In  one  grand  circumspect  the  separate  lives, 

The  individual  links  whereby  our  hearts 


158 


Walk  slowly  back  the  difficult  paths  of  Time, 
Or  climb  some  lesser  eminence,  to  gain 
A  forward  look  that  dimly  penetrates 
The  nearest  Future.     Past  and  Future  now 
Unite  their  worlds  in  equal  counterpoise, 
And,  effortless  as  dreams,  the  wisdom  comes 
That  reads  the  hidden  issues  of  all  life, 
The  purpose  of  Creation. 

Mount  no  more, 
Thou  flying  cloud,  but  rather  turn  to  dew 
And  weep  thyself  upon  the  clover  meads, 
And  mix  thy  being  with  their  honeyed  bloom, 
Than  float  alone  within  the  highest  vault 
Of  blue-cold  ether,  to  dissolve  alone 
Into  the  thin,  unfriendly  air.     Come  down  ! 
Come  down  !  and  let  me  quit  this  perilous  height, 
This  icy  royalty  of  thought,  to  glide 
Nearer  the  homes  of  men,  the  embowered  nests 
Of  unaspiring,  lowliest  content, 
And  joy,  that  from  the  beams  of  many  hearts 
Gathers  its  radiant  focus,  like  a  star 
In  the  warm  mists  of  Earth  :  nor  yet  enough 
To  glide  above,  but  drop  me  in  the  fields 
Or  in  the  vales  at  evening,  when  from  work 
Accomplished,  rest  the  glowing  limbs  of  Toil, 


159 


And  men  have  time  to  love  —  and  I  will  kiss 

The  rugged  cheek  of  Earth,  with  thankful  tears 

For  every  throb  of  every  human  heart 

That  welcomes  me  to  share  the  general  law, 

And  bear  the  mutual  burden.     Man  alone 

Creates  Elysium  for  the  soul  of  man. 

The  ample  Future,  and  the  godlike  reach 

Of  new  existence,  are  the  prophecies 

Of  humblest  Love,  and  in  the  souls  that  love 

And  are  beloved  the  shining  ether  swims, 

Whereon  exalted,  we  o'erlook  the  world, 

And  Life,  and  Death,  and  every  thing  but  Heaven. 


160 


L' ENVOI. 

Unto  the  Desert  and  the  desert  steed 

Farewell !     The  journey  is  completed  now  : 

Struck  are  the  tents  of  Ishmael's  wandering  breed, 
And  I  unwind  the  turban  from  my  brow. 

The  sun  has  ceased  to  shine  ;  the  palms  that  bent, 
Inebriate  with  light,  have  disappeared ; 

And  naught  is  left  me  of  the  Orient 

But  the  tanned  bosom  and  the  unshorn  beard. 

Yet  from  that  life  my  blood  a  glow  retains, 
As  the  red  sunshine  in  the  ruby  glows ; 

These  songs  are  echoes  of  its  fiercer  strains  — 
Dreams,  that  recall  its  passion  and  repose. 


161 


I  found,  among  those  Children  of  the  Sun, 
The  cipher  of  my  nature  —  the  release 

Of  baffled  powers,  which  else  had  never  won 
That  free  fulfilment,  whose  reward  is  peace. 

For  not  to  any  race  or  any  clime 

Is  the  completed  sphere  of  life  revealed ; 

He  who  would  make  his  own  that  round  sublime, 
Must  pitch  his  tent  on  many  a  distant  field. 

Upon  his  home  a  dawning  lustre  beams, 

But  through  the  world  he  walks  to  open  day, 

Gathering  from  every  land  the  prismal  gleams, 
Which,  when  united,  form  the  perfect  ray. 

Go,  therefore,  Songs !  —  which  in  the  East  were  born 
And  drew  your  nurture  —  from  your  sire's  control : 

Haply  to  wander  through  the  West  forlorn, 
Or  find  a  shelter  in  some  Orient  soul. 


And  if  the  temper  of  our  colder  sky 

Less  warmth  of  passion  and  of  speech  demands, 
They  are  the  blossoms  of  my  life  —  and  I 

Have  ripened  in  the  suns  of  many  lands. 
11 


II. 


(163) 


165 


HYMN  TO  AIR. 


The  mightiest  thou,  among  the  Powers  of  Earth, 
The  viewless  Agent  of  the  unseen  God, 

What  immemorial  era  saw  thy  birth  ? 

What  pathless  fields  of  new  Creation  trod 

Thy  noiseless  feet  ?    Where  was  thy  dwelling-place 
In  the  blind  realm  of  Chaos,  ere  the  word 
Of  Sovereign  Order  by  the  stars  was  heard, 

Or  the  young  planet  knew  her  Maker's  face  ? 

No  wrecks  are  hid  in  thine  unfathomed  sea ; 
Thy  crystal  tablets  no  inscription  bear ; 

The  awful  Infinite  is  shrined  in  thee, 
Immeasurable  Air ! 


166 


ii. 


Thou  art  the  Soul  wherein  the  Earth  renews 

The  nobler  life,  that  heals  her  primal  scars ; 
Thine  is  the  mantle  of  all-glorious  hues, 

Which  makes  her  beautiful  among  the  stars ; 
Thine  is  the  essence  that  informs  her  frame 

With  manifold  existence,  thine  the  wing 

From  gulfs  of  outer  darkness  sheltering, 
And  from  the  Sun's  uplifted  sword  of  flame. 
She  sleeps  in  thy  protection,  lives  in  thee ; 

Thou  mak'st  the  foreheads  of  her  mountains  smile ; 
His  heart  to  thine,  the  all-surrounding  Sea 

Spreads  thy  blue  drapery  o'er  his  cradled  isle. 
Thou  art  the  breath  of  Nature,  and  the  tongue 

Unto  her  dumb  material  being  granted, 

And  by  thy  voice  her  sorrowing  psalms  are  chanted  — 
Her  hymns  of  triumph  sung ! 


in. 


Thine  azure  fountains  nourish  all  that  lives  ; 
Forever  drained,  yet  ever  brimming  o'er, 


167 


Their  billows  in  eternal  freshness  pour, 
And  from  her  choicest  treasury  Nature  gives 
A  glad  repayment  of  the  debt  she  owes, 

Replenishing  thy  sources  :  —  balmy  dews, 

That  on  thy  breast  their  summer  tears  diffuse  ; 
Strength  from  the  pine,  and  sweetness  from  the  rose ; 
The  spice  of  gorgeous  Ind,  the  scents,  that  fill 

Ambrosial  forests  in  the  isles  of  palm  ; 
Leagues  of  perennial  bloom  on  every  hill ; 

Lily  and  lotus  in  the  water's  calm  ; 
And  where  the  torrent  leaps  to  take  thy  wing, 

But  dashes  out  its  life  in  diamond  spray, 
Or  multitudinous  waves  of  ocean  fling 

Their  briny  strength  along  thy  rapid  way  — 
Escapes  some  virtue  which  from  thee  they  hold  : 

And  even  the  grosser  exhalations,  fed 

From  Earth's  decay,  Time's  crowded  chamel-bed, 
Fused  in  thy  vast  alembic,  turn  to  gold. 


IV. 


Man  is  thy  nursling,  universal  Air ! 

No  kinder  parent  fosters  him  than  thou : 
How  soft  thy  fingers  dally  with  his  hair ! 

How  sweet  their  pressure  on  his  fevered  brow ! 


168 


In  the  dark  lanes  where  squalid  Misery  dwells, 
Where  the  fresh  glories  of  existence  shun 

The  childhood  nurtured  in  the  city's  hells, 
And  eyes  that  never  saw  the  morning  sun, 

Pale  cheeks  for  thee  are  pining,  heavy  sighs 

Drawn  from  the  depth  of  weary  hearts,  arise  — 

The  flower  of  Life  is  withered  on  its  stem, 

And  the  black  shade  the  loathsome  walls  enclose 
Day  after  day  more  drear  and  stifling  grows, 

Till  Heaven  itself  seems  forfeited  to  them  ! 

What  marvel,  then,  as  from  a  fevered  dream 
The  dying  wakes,  to  feel  his  forehead  fanned 

By  thy  celestial  freshness,  he  should  deem 

The  death-sweat  dried  beneath  an  angel's  hand  ? 

That  tokens  of  the  violet-sprinkled  sod, 

Breathed  like  a  blessing  o'er  his  closing  eyes, 
Should  promise  him  the  peace  of  Paradise  — 
The  pardon  of  his  God  ? 


v. 


What  is  the  scenery  of  Earth  to  thine  ? 

Here  all  is  fixed  in  everlasting  shapes, 
But  where  the  realms  of  gorgeous  Cloudland  shine, 

There  stretch  afar  thy  sun-illumined  capes, 


169 


Embaying  reaches  of  the  amber  seas 
Of  sunset,  on  whose  tranquil  bosom  lie 
The  happy  islands  of  the  upper  sky, 

The  halcyon  shores  of  thine  Atlantides. 

Anon  the  airy  headlands  change,  and  drift 
Into  sublimer  forms,  that  slowly  heave 
Their  toppling  masses  up  the  front  of  eve, 

Crag  heaped  on  crag,  with  many  a  fiery  rift, 

And  hoary  summits,  throned  beyond  the  reach 
Of  Alp  or  Caucasus  :  again  they  change, 
And  down  the  vast,  interminable  range 

Of  towers  and  palaces,  transcending  each 

The  workmanship  of  Fable-Land,  we  see 

The  "crystal  hyaline"  of  Heaven's  own  floor' 

The  radiance  of  the  far  Eternity 

Reflected  on  thy  shore  ! 


VI. 


To  the  pure  calm  of  thy  cerulean  deeps 
The  jar  of  earth-born  tumult  cannot  climb  ; 

There  ancient  Silence  her  dominion  keeps, 
Beyond  the  narrow  boundaries  of  Time. 

The  taint  of  Sin,  the  vapors  of  the  world,. 
The  smokes  of  godless  altars,  hang  below, 


170 


Staining  thy  marge,  but  not  a  cloud  is  curled 
Where  those  supernal  tides  of  ether  flow. 

What  vistas  ope  from  those  serener  plains ! 

What  dawning  splendors  touch  thine  azure  towers ! 
When  some  fair  soul,  whose  path  on  Earth  was  ours 

The  starry  freedom  of  its  wing  regains, 

Shall  it  not  linger  for  a  moment  there, 

One  last  divine  regret  to  Earth  returning, — 
One  look,  where  Light  ineffable  is  burning 
In  Heaven's  immortal  Air! 


VII. 


Thine  are  the  treasuries  of  Hail  and  Snow ; 

Thy  hand  lets  fall  the  Thunder's  bolt  of  fire ; 
And  when  from  out  thy  seething  caldrons  blow 

The  vapors  of  the  whirlwind,  spire  on  spire 
In  terrible  convolution  wreathed  and  blent, 

The  unimagined  strength  that  lay  concealed 

Within  thy  quiet  bosom  is  revealed 
To  the  racked  Earth  and  trembling  firmament. 
And  thou  dost  hold,  awaiting  God's  decree, 

The  keys  of  all  destruction  :  —  in  that  hour 

When  the  Almighty  Wrath  shall  loose  thy  power, 
Before  thy  breath  shall  disappear  the  sea, 


171 


To  ashes  turn  the  mountain's  mighty  frame, 
And  as  the  seven-fold  fervors  wider  roll, 
Thou,  self-consuming,  shrivel  as  a  scroll, 

And  wrap  the  world  in  one  wide  pall  of  flame ! 


172 


SONG. 

Now  the  days  are  brief  and  drear: 
Naked  lies  the  new-born  Year 
In  his  cradle  of  the  snow, 
And  the  winds  unbridled  blow, 
And  the  skies  hang  dark  and  low — 
For  the  Summers  come  and  go. 

Leave  the  clashing  cymbals  mute ! 
Pipe  no  more  the  happy  flute  ! 
Sing  no  more  that  dancing  rhyme 
Of  the  rose's  harvest-time  — 
Sing  a  requiem,  sad  and  low : 
For  the  Summers  come  and  go. 

Where  is  Youth  ?     He  strayed  away 
Through  the  meadow-flowers  of  May. 


173 

Where  is  Love  ?     The  leaves  that  fell 
From  his  trysting-bower,  can  tell. 
Wisdom  stays,  sedate  and  slow, 
And  the  Summers  come  and  go. 

Yet  a  few  more  years  to  run, 
Wheeling  round  in  gloom  and  sun ; 
Other  raptures,  other  woes  — 
Toil  alternate  with  Repose  : 
Then  to  sleep  where  daisies  grow, 
While  the  Summers  come  and  go 


174 


THE   MYSTERY. 

Thou  art  not  dead  ;  thou  art  not  gone  to  dust ; 

No  line  of  all  thy  loveliness  shall  fall 
To  formless  ruin,  smote  by  Time,  and  thrust 

Into  the  solemn  gulf  that  covers  all. 

Thou  canst  not  wholly  perish,  though  the  sod 
Sink  with  its  violets  closer  to  thy  breast ; 

Though  by  the  feet  of  generations  trod, 

The  head-stone  crumbles  from  thy  place  of  rest. 

The  marvel  of  thy  beauty  cannot  die  ; 

The  sweetness  of  thy  presence  shall  not  fade ; 
Earth  gave  not  all  the  glory  of  thine  eye  — 

Death  may  not  keep  what  Death  has  never  made. 


175 


It  was  not  thine,  that  forehead  strange  and  cold, 
Nor  those  dumb  lips,  they  hid  beneath  the  snow; 

Thy  heart  would  throb  beneath  that  passive  fold, 
Thy  hands  for  me  that  stony  clasp  forego. 

But  thou  hadst  gone  —  gone  from  the  dreary  land, 
Gone  from  the  storms  let  loose  on  every  hill, 

Lured  by  the  sweet  persuasion  of  a  hand 

Which  leads  thee  somewhere  in  the  distance  still. 

Where'er  thou  art,  I  know  thou  wearest  yet 
The  same  bewildering  beauty,  sanctified 

By  calmer  joy,  and  touched  with  soft  regret 
For  him  who  seeks,  but  cannot  reach  thy  side. 

I  keep  for  thee  the  living  love  of  old, 
And  seek  thy  place  in  Nature,  as  a  child 

Whose  hand  is  parted  from  his  playmate's  hold, 
Wanders  and  cries  along  a  lonesome  wild. 

When,  in  the  watches  of  my  heart,  I  hear 
The  messages  of  purer  life,  and  know 

The  footsteps  of  thy  spirit  lingering  near, 

The  darkness  hides  the  way  that  I  should  go. 


176 


Canst  thou  not  bid  the  empty  realms  restore 
That  form,  the  symbol  of  thy  heavenly  part  ? 

Or  on  the  fields  of  barren  silence  pour 

That  voice,  the  perfect  music  of  thy  heart  ? 

O  once,  once  bending  to  these  widowed  lips, 
Take  back  the  tender  warmth  of  life  from  me, 

Or  let  thy  kisses  cloud  with  swift  eclipse 

The  light  of  mine,  and  give  me  death  with  thee ! 


177 


A  PICTURE. 

Sometimes,  in  sleeping  dreams  of  night, 

Or  waking  dreams  of  day, 
The  selfsame  picture  seeks  my  sight 

And  will  not  fade  away. 

I  see  a  valley,  cold  and  still, 

Beneath  a  leaden  sky  : 
The  woods  are  leafless  on  the  hill, 

The  fields  deserted  lie. 

The  gray  November  eve  benumbs 
The  damp  and  cheerless  air; 

A  wailing  from  the  forest  comes, 
As  of  the  world's  despair. 
12 


178 

But  on  the  verge  of  night  and  storm, 

Far  down  the  valley's  line, 
I  see  the  lustre,  red  and  warm, 

Of  cottage  windows  shine. 

And  men  are  housed,  and  in  their  place, 

In  snug  and  happy  rest, 
Save  one,  who  walks  with  weary  pace 

The  highway's  frozen  breast. 

His  limbs,  that  tremble  with  the  cold, 
Shrink  from  the  coming  storm ; 

But  underneath  his  mantle's  fold, 
His  heart  beats  quick  and  warm. 

He  hears  the  laugh  of  those  who  sit 

In  Home's  contented  air  ; 
He  sees  the  busy  shadows  flit 

Across  the  window's  glare. 

His  heart  is  full  of  love  unspent, 

His  eyes  are  wet  and  dim ; 
For  in  those  circles  of  content 

There  is  no  room  for  him. 


179 

He  clasps  his  hands  and  looks  above ; 

He  makes  the  bitter  cry  : 
"  All,  all  are  happy  in  their  love  — 

All  are  beloved  but  I !  " 


Across  no  threshold  streams  the  light, 
Expectant,  o'er  his  track  ; 

No  door  is  opened  on  the  night, 
To  bid  him  welcome  back. 


There  is  no  other  man  abroad 

In  all  the  wintry  vale, 
And  lower  upon  his  lonely  road 

The  darkness  and  the  gale. 

I  see  him  through  the  doleful  shades 
Press  onward,  sad  and  slow, 

Till  from  my  dream  the  picture  fades, 
And  from  my  heart  the  woe. 


180 


IN  THE   MEADOWS. 

I  lie  in  the  summer  meadows, 

In  the  meadows  all  alone, 
With  the  infinite  sky  above  me 

And  the  sun  on  his  mid-day  throne. 

The  smell  of  the  flowering  grasses 

Is  sweeter  than  any  rose, 
And  a  million  happy  insects 

Sing  in  the  warm  repose. 

The  mother  lark  that  is  brooding 
Feels  the  sun  on  her  wings, 

And  the  deeps  of  the  noonday  glitter 
With  swarms  of  fairy  things. 


181 

From  the  billowy  green  beneath  me 
To  the  fathomless  blue  above, 

The  creatures  of  God  are  happy 
In  the  warmth  of  their  summer  love. 

The  infinite  bliss  of  Nature 

I  feel  in  every  vein  ; 
The  light  and  the  life  of  Summer 

Blossom  in  heart  and  brain. 


But  darker  than  any  shadow 
By  thunder-clouds  unfurled, 

The  awful  truth  arises, 

That  Death  is  in  the  world ! 

And  the  sky  may  beam  as  ever, 
And  never  a  cloud  be  curled ; 

And  the  airs  be  living  odors, 
But  Death  is  in  the  world ! 


Out  of  the  deeps  of  sunshine 
The  invisible  bolt  is  hurled : 

There's  life  in  the  summer  meadows, 
But  Death  is  in  the  world  ! 


182 


SONNET. 

The  soul  goes  forth  and  finds  no  resting  place 

On  the  wide  breast  of  Life's  unquiet  sea 

But  in  the  heart  of  Man.     The  blazonry 
Of  Wealth  and  Power  fades  out,  and  leaves  no  trace ; 
Renown's  fresh  laurels  for  awhile  may  grace 

The  brow  that  wears  them,  but  the  dazzling  tree 

Has  canker  in  its  heart ;  Philosophy 
Is  not  Content,  and  Art's  immortal  face 

Is  trenched  with  weary  furrows  :  but  the  heart 
Hoards  in  its  cells  the  satisfying  dew 

Which  all  our  thirst  is  powerless  to  exhaust. 
Let  Life's  uncertain  dignities  depart, 
And  if  one  single  manly  heart  be  true, 

My  own,  contented,  counts  them  cheaply  lost. 


183 


THE   WINTER  SOLSTICE. 

0  darkest  day  of  all  the  year ! 

O  day  of  Winter  and  of  Death  ! 
Thy  reign  is  in  the  North,  yet  here, 

The  Southern  Ocean  feels  thy  breath. 
Yon  ruddy  sun,  that  from  the  wave 

Climbs  up  his  path  in  summer  glow, 
Will  light,  ere  long,  a  frozen  grave, 

Too  cold  to  melt  its  pall  of  snow. 

And  I  must  find  the  sunshine  pale, 

The  tropic  breezes  chill  and  drear, 
For  when  the  gray  autumnal  gale 

Came  to  despoil  the  dying  year, 
Passed  with  the  slow  retreating  sun, 

As  day  by  day  some  beams  depart, 
The  beauty  and  the  life  of  one, 

Whose  love  made  summer  in  my  heart. 


184 

Day  after  day,  the  latest  flower, 

Her  faded  being  waned  away, 
More  pale  and  dim  with  every  hour 

And  ceased  upon  the  darkest  day ! 
The  warmth  and  glow  that  with  her  died 

No  light  of  coming  suns  shall  bring ; 
The  heart  its  wintry  gloom  may  hide, 

But  cannot  feel  a  second  Spring. 

O  darkest  day  of  all  the  year ! 

In  vain  thou  com'st  with  balmy  skies, 
For,  blotting  out  their  azure  sphere, 

The  phantoms  of  my  Fate  arise  : 
A  blighted  life,  whose  shattered  plan 

No  after  fortune  can  restore  ; 
The  perfect  lot,  designed  for  Man, 

That  should  be  mine,  but  is  no  more. 

She  was  the  sun,  that  rose  above 

The  landscape  of  the  life  I  dreamed, 
And  through  the  portals  of  her  love 

The  promise  of  my  Future  beamed. 
Though  buried  long,  those  dreams  arise 

To  mock  me  wheresoe'er  I  roam 

The  happy  light  of  household  eyes, 

The  blessing  and  the  peace  of  Home. 


185 

And  I  behold  the  changing  fire 

Of  alien  heavens  increase  and  pale 
On  many  a  sunbeam-gilded  spire 

And  many  a  moonlight-silvered  sail : 
The  pomp  and  glory  of  the  lands, 

The  range  of  Earth,  is  given  to  me ; 
But  every  touch  of  loving  hands 

Recalls  my  blighted  destiny. 


186 


IN  ARTICULO  MORTIS. 

I  would  be  left  alone  —  with  none  but  you, 

The  last,  sole  friend,  where  all  have  fallen  off 

Like  summer  birds,  and  left  your  nest  alone 

Amidst  the  withered  foliage  of  my  heart. 

Give  me  your  hand  :  your  soul  will  walk  with  mine 

Into  the  shadows,  far  as  life  may  go 

Within  the  porch  of  Death,  and  send  its  cry 

Of  faithful  love  across  the  mighty  gulf, 

When  we  are  forced  asunder. 

Nay,  Priest !  nay  : 
Stand  not  between  me  and  the  fading  light 
Of  my  last  hour.     I  know  my  soul  is  weighed 
With  many  sins  —  the  pages  of  my  life 
Soiled  with  unworthy  records  ;  that  I  go 
Redder  than  scarlet  to  the  awful  bar 
Where  God  shall  judge  me  :  but  even,  knowing  this, 
And  stung  with  wild,  unutterable  woe, 


187 


As  the  lost  chances  of  my  life  arise, 

With  all  their  opportunities  of  good 

Deepening  the  blackness  of  the  evil  choice, 

I  will  not  lean  upon  another's  arm, 

Or  lift  my  soul  upon  another's  prayer, 

Or  bid  a  human  intercessor  plead 

My  perilous  cause  ;  but  I  will  stagger  on, 

Beneath  my  sins,  unto  the  feet  of  God, 

For,  were  the  crushing  burden  tenfold  great, 

He  sees  the  secret  heart  which  they  obscure 

And  not  withholds  His  mercy.     He  is  just, 

And  I  am  sick  of  human  justice.     I 

Will  go  to  Him,  who  sent  me  on  the  earth 

Wisely,  though  I  have  trampled  on  His  gifts  ; 

In  love,  though  I  have  tasted  most  of  pain  ; 

And  justly,  though  the  monstrous  wrongs  that  men 

Perpetuate  in  His  name  have  borne  me  down 

Beyond  all  virtue,  but  my  faith  in  Him. 

Go,  Priest !  the  absolution  which  I  seek 

No  prayer  of  yours  can  purchase  :  I  have  gone 

Beyond  your  reach  already,  and  the  last 

Weak  props  of  life  one  after  one  give  way. 

O  father  —  father  !     In  what  fatal  school 
Learned  you  the  iron  creed  that  drove  your  child, 
Sore  with  the  scourging  of  its  rigid  laws, 


188 


To  the  alluring  license  of  the  world  ? 

Why  did  you  crush  the  healthy  joys  that  craved 

Growth  in  a  liberal  air,  the  motions  free 

That  leap  along  the  bounding  pulse  of  Youth 

And  pluck  delight  in  the  fresh  fields  of  Time, 

Building  your  stern  religion  round  the  dreams 

That  fill,  self-born,  the  morning  sleep  of  Life, 

And  give  us  courage  for  its  day  of  toil  ? 

Had  you  not  hedged  each  simple  joy  with  sin, 

And  from  the  guileless  blooms  of  Nature  driven 

My  steps,  to  falter  on  your  arid  wastes 

Of  harshest  duty,  I  had  never  looked 

To  Sin  for  joy,  nor  plunged  amid  the  rank, 

Dense  overgrowths  of  Pleasure,  which  conceal 

Her  soundless  quicksands  :   had  you  turned  the  tide 

Of  warm,  impetuous  blood,  that  beat  so  strong 

In  every  vein,  to  mingle  with  the  streams 

Of  manly  action,  I  had  spent  its  force 

In  watering  many  a  pleasant  field  of  life 

With  fertilizing  increase  ;   but  you  set 

Your  unrelenting  dogmas  in  its  path, 

Locked  the  dark  barrier  with  a  cruel  hand, 

And  thought  the  fierce  rebellion  you  provoked 

By  tyranny  against  my  nature's  law, 

The  evidence  of  Hell !     The  buttressed  walls 

You  built  to  stay  me  madly  burst  away, 


189 


And  like  a  captive  by  recovered  light 
Blinded,  and  in  the  long-lost  airs  of  Heaven 
Reeling  inebriate,  I  was  tossed  along 
Upon  a  flood  I  knew  not  how  to  stem, 
Through  the  wide  sea  of  desolating  years, 
Until  the  flying  wreck  on  which  you  hurled 
Your  stern  anathemas,  is  thrown  at  last, 
A  heap  of  ruin,  on  the  barren  shores 
Where  the  world's  outcasts  take  their  bitter  leave 
Of  the  cold  world's  injustice. 

Wholly  lost 
Not  then  was  I,  O  father  !  had  you  shown 
The  awful  pathos  of  a  father's  grief, 
Or  dropped  one  word  that  spoke  a  father's  love, 
Bursting,  as  from  a  heart  at  lava-glow, 
Through  the  cold  wrath  that  made  you  adamant, 
In  that  brief  time,  when  loathingly  I  turned 
From  the  palled  company  of  Vice,  to  throw 
My  heart,  repentant,  at  the  feet  of  one 
Who  might  have  lifted  me  from  out  the  deeps, 
And  set  my  feet  upon  the  steady  paths 
I  labored  to  recover.     But,  when  you, 
My  father,  spurned  and  drove  me  back  to  sin, 
You  snapped  the  feeble  chain  to  which  I  clung, 
And  she,  and  you,  and  all  the  blinded  world  — 


190 


O  God,  how  blind  !  — you  saw  me  fall,  and  fall, 

And  loosed  my  frantic  clutch  from  every  prop 

Until  the  floods  above  my  head  were  rolled 

So  deep,  I  bade  farewell  to  light  and  took 

My  portion  with  the  darkness.     You  have  passed 

To  other  life  already  :  I  will  think 

You  did  but  deal  with  me  as  you  were  taught 

By  heartless  laws  of  Sect,  which  you  mistook 

For  Heaven's  commandments.     In  this  solemn  hour 

Death  washes  out  the  bitterness  that  filled 

The  Past,  and  I  forgive  :  —  God  !  that  a  son 

Should  ever  have  such  need  ! 

She,  whom  I  found 
Amid  those  dreary  haunts  where  brazen  Sin 
Laughed  o'er  her  fall  from  virtue  —  she,  whose  love, 
Her  only  weakness,  to  the  brink  betrayed 
Where  one  blind  step  condemns  to  endless  woe  — 
She  was  not  false  :  she  threw  before  my  feet 
Her  bruised  and  trampled  heart,  and  from  the  wrecks 
Of  outraged  tenderness  built  up  anew 
The  shrine  of  Love,  the  saddened  counterfeit 
Of  that,  which  from  the  bowers  of  innocent  hearts 
Sends  the  pure  incense  of  its  perfect  joy 
To  God's  high  throne.     She  clung  to  me  with  truth 
That  might  have  cleansed  her  from  the  stains  of  shame, 


191 


Were  Man  less  cruel.     Hunted,  driven  to  bay 
By  persecution  and  by  keenest  want, 
She  spurned  the  tempters  who  would  blight  the  last 
Pale  flower,  that  in  her  ravaged  fields  of  life 
Recalled  the  happy  days  when  she  was  pure. 
Rest  thee,  thou  weary  spirit !     Were  there  tears 
In  the  cold  eyes  of  men,  thy  touching  faith 
Should  draw  them  forth,  and  gentlest  Charity, 
Veiling  thy  frailties,  leave  thy  memory  white 
With  the  redemption  of  that  saving  love  ! 

You,  too,  my  friend  —  (still  keep  my  hand  in  yours, 
For  we  are  nigh  the  parting) — you  were  true, 
Faithful  where  all  were  faithless.     In  the  dark 
Which  filled  the  chambers  of  my  soul,  you  saw 
The  wreck  of  manliness  that  might  have  been, 
Capacities  for  love  which  never  came, 
And  the  deserted  shrines  whence  Faith  had  fled  : 
But  you  alike  had  suffered  from  the  laws 
That  wrought  such  devastation  ;  you  had  felt 
In  suffering,  the  kind  regard  of  Heaven, 
And  all  the  guilty  records  of  my  life 
Knit  you  the  closer,  till  your  love  became 
The  agent  of  God's  pity.     I  will  think 
He  shall  not  wholly  cast  me  off,  nor  doom 
My  soul  to  endless  company  with  sins 
I  loathed  while  I  committed  :  that,  if  He 


192 


Shut  His  bright  Heaven  against  me,  there  may  be 
Among  his  myriad  worlds  some  lonely  place, 
Though  far  remote,  within  the  radiant  sphere 
His  glory  blesses,  where  she  waits  for  me, 
And  you  will  join  us  in  a  little  while. 
He  gave  us  to  each  other :  will  He  now 
Break  the  sweet  links  whereby  we  felt  our  hearts 
First  drawn  to  Him  ?     He,  the  All-Merciful, 
Who  not  deserted  us  when  men  forsook, 
And  loved  when  they  despised  us,  will  not  judge 
Too  harshly,  when  our  naked  souls  go  up    • 
To  meet  His  awful  presence. 

#  *  #  # 

I  am  chill, 
And  the  room  darkens  :  let  me  feel  your  hand 
Here,  where  my  heart  beats  feebly.      Friend  —  dear 

friend  ! 
Kiss  me  upon  the  cheek,  before  it  grows 
Too  cold,  and  lift  my  head  upon  your  breast. 
Tears  on  my  face  ?     The  scalding  tears  of  man, 
Not  lightly  shattered  from  their  iron  cells, 
Shed  thus  for  me  ?     It  sweetens  Death,  to  know 
Such  rain  as  this  will  consecrate  my  dust. 


193 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  AT  SEA. 

Come,  messmates,  fill  the  cheerful  bowl ! 

To-night  let  no  one  fail, 
No  matter  how  the  billows  roll, 

Or  roars  the  ocean  gale. 
There's  toil  and  danger  in  our  lives, 

But  let  us  jovial  be, 
And  drink  to  sweethearts  and  to  wives, 

On  Saturday  night  at  sea  ! 

The  chill  nor'wester  hurls  the  spray 

Our  icy  bulwarks  o'er, 
As  swift  we  cleave  our  stormy  way, 

A  thousand  miles  from  shore  ; 
And  while  the  good  ship  onward  drives, 

Let  none  forget  that  he 
Must  drink  to  sweethearts  and  to  wives, 

On  Saturday  night  at  sea ! 
13 


194 

The  joys  that  landsmen  little  reck 

We  best  can  understand, 
Who  live  a  year  upon  the  deck, 

A  month  upon  the  land. 
And  rough  as  are  our  sailor  lives, 

Full  tender  hearts  have  we 
To  drink  to  sweethearts  and  to  wives, 

On  Saturday  night  at  sea  ! 

Our  frames  are  worn  and  little  worth, 

And  hard  our  rugged  hands  ; 
We  struggle  for  our  hold  on  Earth 

With  the  storms  of  many  lands  : 
But  the  only  love  that  lights  our  lives 

Shall  still  remembered  be  ; 
We  drink  to  sweethearts  and  to  wives, 

On  Saturday  night  at  sea ! 


195 


SONG. 

They  call  thee  false  as  thou  art  fair, 

They  call  thee  fair  and  free  — 
A  creature  pliant  as  the  air 

And  changeful  as  the  sea  : 
But  I,  who  gaze  with  other  eyes  — 

Who  stand  and  watch  afar, 
Behold  thee  pure  as  yonder  skies 

And  steadfast  as  a  star  ! 

Thine  is  a  rarer  nature,  born 

To  rule  the  common  crowd, 
And  thou  dost  lightly  laugh  to  scorn 

The  hearts  before  thee  bowed. 
Thou  dreamest  of  a  different  love 

Than  comes  to  such  as  these  ; 
That  soars  as  high  as  heaven  above 

Their  shallow  sympathies. 


196 

A  star  that  shines  with  flickering  spark, 

Thou  dost  not  wane  away, 
But  shed'st  adown  the  purple  dark 

The  fulness  of  thy  ray : 
A  rose,  whose  odors  freely  part 

At  every  zephyr's  will, 
Thou  keep'st  within  thy  folded  heart 

Its  virgin  sweetness  still ! 


197 


THE   MID-WATCH. 

I  pace  the  deck  in  the  dead  of  night, 

When  the  moon  and  starlight  fail, 
And  the  cordage  creaks  to  the  lazy  swells, 

And  heavily  flaps  the  sail. 
On  the  darkness  glimmers  the  binnacle-lamp 

With  feeble  and  lonely  spell : 
No  sound  but  the  passing  sentry's  tramp 

Or  his  measured  cry  :  "  All's  well ! " 

To  and  fro,  with  accustomed  step, 

I  walk  in  the  night  alone, 
And  I  think  of  a  thousand  watches  kept 

In  the  years  forever  flown  ; 
Of  the  friends  in  whose  manly  fellowship 

I  labored  long  ago, 
Till  Death  relieved  their  watch  on  earth, 

And  they  went  to  rest  below. 


198 

1  think  of  the  gallant  ones  who  died 

When  our  broadsides  shook  the  sea, 
And  sorrow  for  them  subdued  the  pride 

Of  our  cheers  of  victory : 
Of  those  who  fell  in  the  fevered  lands, 

Or  sank  in  the  whelming  wave  — 
Whose  corpses  waste  on  the  barren  sands, 

Or  float  in  a  fathomless  grave. 

And  the  looks  revive  that  were  faint  and  dim 

In  the  shadows  of  the  years, 
And  I  scan  them  o'er  till  my  eyelids  swim 

With  the  strange  delight  of  tears  : 
They  people  the  dark  with  their  pallid  brows 

As  they  silently  throng  around, 
And  the  sea  its  phosphor  radiance  throws 

On  the  faces  of  the  drowned. 

So  many  a  noble  heart  is  cold 

That  shared  my  duties  then, 
I  have  looked  full  oft  in  the  face  of  Death, 

But  he  comes  to  better  men  ; 
And  let  hjm  come  in  his  chosen  time, 

Some  friend  will  think  of  me, 
And  I  shall  live  in  the  lonely  hours 

Of  his  midnight  watch  at  sea. 


199 


THE  PHANTOM. 

Again  I  sit  within  the  mansion, 

In  the  old,  familiar  seat ; 
And  shade  and  sunshine  chase  each  other 

O'er  the  carpet  at  my  feet. 

But  the  sweet-brier's  arms  have  wrestled  upwards 

In  the  summers  that  are  past, 
And  the  willow  trails  its  branches  lower 

Than  when  I  saw  them  last. 

They  strive  to  shut  the  sunshine  wholly 

From  out  the  haunted  room ; 
To  fill  the  house,  that  once  was  joyful,. 

With  silence  and  with  gloom. 


200 

And  many  kind,  remembered  faces 
Within  the  doorway  come  — 

Voices,  that  wake  the  sweeter  music 
Of  one  that  now  is  dumb. 

They  sing,  in  tones  as  glad  as  ever, 
The  songs  she  loved  to  hear ; 

They  braid  the  rose  in  summer  garlands, 
Whose  flowers  to  her  were  dear. 

And  still,  her  footsteps  in  the  passage, 

Her  blushes  at  the  door, 
Her  timid  words  of  maiden  welcome, 

Come  back  to  me  once  more. 

And,  all  forgetful  of  my  sorrow, 

Unmindful  of  my  pain, 
I  think  she  has  but  newly  left  me, 

And  soon  will  come  again. 

She  stays  without,  perchance,  a  moment, 
To  dress  her  dark-brown  hair ; 

I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  garments  — 
Her  light  step  on  the  stair  ! 


201 

O,  fluttering  heart !  control  thy  tumult, 

Lest  eyes  profane  should  see 
My  cheeks  betray  the  rush  of  rapture 

Her  coming  brings  to  me  ! 

She  tarries  long  :  but  lo  !  a  whisper 

Beyond  the  open  door, 
And,  gliding  through  the  quiet  sunshine, 

A  shadow  on  the  floor ! 

Ah  !  'tis  the  whispering  pine  that  calls  me, 
The  vine,  whose  shadow  strays  ; 

And  my  patient  heart  must  still  await  her, 
Nor  chide  her  long  delays. 

But  my  heart  grows  sick  with  weary  waiting, 

As  many  a  time  before  : 
Her  foot  is  ever  at  the  threshold, 

Yet  never  passes  o'er. 


LAMENT  AND  CONSOLATION. 

False,  fleeting  Youth,  ah  !  whither  fled 

Thy  golden  promise  ? 
Thy  joy  is  past,  thy  love  is  dead, 
And  every  arrowy  hope  we  sped 

Falls  distant  from  us. 

Ah,  where  the  wondrous  alchemy 
Thy  steps  that  haunted  ? 

The  happy  airs  of  Arcady 

That  fanned  thy  brow,  the  fancy  free, 
The  faith  undaunted  ? 

The  glories  caught  from  Nature  die, 

And  men  deceive  me  ; 
Star  after  star  goes  down  the  sky, 
And  darker,  sadder  hours  are  nigh, 

If  Song  should  leave  me. 


For  Song  can  still  the  living  light 

Of  Memory  borrow, 
With  faded  dawns  to  flush  the  night, 
And  hide  with  gleams  of  old  delight 

The  present  sorrow. 

Let  Faith  and  Love  and  Hope  depart, 

Since  Fate  so  wills  it : 
Some  foliage  yet  may  shade  the  heart, 
And  blossom  in  the  beams  of  Art, 
Whose  presence  fills  it. 

On  thee,  dear  Song !  the  loss  I  cast, 

Beyond  redressing  : 
Let  gone  be  gone,  and  past  be  past, 
But,  Angel !  I  will  hold  thee  fast, 

And  force  thy  blessing ! 


Boston,  135  Washington  Stbbet, 
September,  1855.- 


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